Never Your Hero
by General Kitty Girl
Summary: WWI Historical. With the face of war rapidly changing, veteran nations struggle to keep up with ever evolving enemies and their growing power. At what point can nations forgo pride and learn to cooperate with their allies for the sake of victory? **Cover Art by ScarletteDiscord**
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter One Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

-Germany/ Ludwig

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter I

_"It was never about doing right by you...in the beginning."_

It had been a week of horrendous noise and thunderous aftershocks wracking the ground. The earth hadn't stopped shivering beneath the outbreak of man's power since the guns had begun their assault to destroy the German front line. Honestly, by the time the cannons had stopped firing and the shells ceased to explode the way one's body felt was comparable to having gotten off a small boat after months in rough seas. The smell of gunpowder was only overpowered by the smell of machine oil, and the heat from wandering among the armaments made the unbearable July sauna even worse. There was a buzz of excitement in the newfound silence, something he personally did not share even though his men held anticipation in spades. While their guts twisted with a nervous thrill, his was twisting for an entirely different reason...

He wasn't sure if it was foreboding or indigestion, yet.

The Empire had already been in this bloody war for two God-forsaken years, now. Already he was more than sick of it, having never wanted anything to do with it in the first place and now firmly stuck smack dab in the middle of this blasted mess. How had it come to this? Because a little European upstart just had to try and prove he was as big of an Imperialist as he elders, his betters. There was barely anything left of the world when Germany decided it wanted to join in the race for colonial supremacy, and what it did take of the remaining lands hadn't bothered the British Empire in the least. However, when the Kaiser's nation blocked France from fully taking Morocco...well, that had been a bit concerning. France wasn't his problem one way or the other, but for the youngster to have halted one of the forerunners in the competition for global superiority was unexpected. When the Germanic nation began to overtake his own in the race of steel and iron production, effectively taking the lead in amassing weapons and artillery - now that had gotten his attention.

When Germany decided to get cute and build a frightfully large Navy, that crossed the line.

A sweaty hand rose to his forehead and began to try massaging a growing headache away. The headache seemed ever present, just ebbing and flowing as the frustration of his people rose and fell with the war's lack of progress. Communication between British and French forces was terse at best, and even worse were the communications with their other powerful ally, Russia. From what could be gathered by way of radio, mouth, and the occasional telegram that made it through, things were not going well...

Germany...Austria-Hungary...The Ottoman Empire...Bulgaria...

How could the greatest nations in Europe be in such a state against countries like these?

The Battle of the Marne had been one of the first to open the theater. The battles in Africa had looked like skirmishes compared to that brutal episode. The Germans had converged like a great storm, sweeping in from the east like an unleashed stampede of hell hounds, armed with inhuman militaristic intelligence intent only upon conquest. They had beaten the French troops back at every turn, outflanking them, sending them running as mortar after mortar fell from the sky like metallic rain. The Germans were making a march for the Atlantic, their sights set on Paris in the process and the French were desperate to hold what ground they could rather than recover what they had lost. It came down to a joint French and British effort, the forces outnumbered by Germans more than seven to one. After eighteen days of hard fighting they had managed to pull off a miracle...

If one could really proclaim a miracle over the wounded and dead bodies of over a quarter of a million men.

The trenches to the north held, the German offensive there was essentially halted from further penetration into France from the north east. Celebration, however, wasn't something to be found on the Allied side. The ever tenacious Germans were far from deterred from their quest to take France.

Eventually...it would come down to Verdun...

* * *

"_They cannot take Verdun, Angleterre! We must stop them before they reach Verdun or all is lost!"_

_Arthur's eyes narrowed and he glared at the frantic Frenchman, as the firelight in the tent burned low. The tattered and dirtied topographies of France, every ridge and river bleeding with red ink as more and more of the land was viciously ripped from Allied fingers, was spread over the desk between them. Both of them looked horrid; uniforms were covered in dust, mud, and torn from having suffered through barbed wire lined trenches where they weren't burned from ejected rifle casings. The British avatar's hair was uncharacteristically flatted beneath his helmet, having rarely taken the thing off since hitting the ground running in this war-torn country, and Francis's usual golden waves were snarled and dull for similar reasons...but unlike Arthur at the moment, Francis wasn't wearing his helmet. As far as the Briton was concerned, it was a part of his bloody anatomy now and he'd be damned if he took it off just because Francis decided he needed a breeze due to the bloody panic he was having._

_Neither of them had slept in God knew how long, and frankly neither of them could really afford to considering how close the Germans were to retaking the front. The supply routes of the Central Powers out of Belgium had reopened and every attempt to close them had been thwarted...not that there had been much of an attempt made; there had just been no success in getting behind the German lines. Now that the Germans were restocking, refueling, and rearming...it was only a matter of time._

"_I fail to see what you expect me to do about it. Its not like I can spare anyone to go rushing down there when I'm having a hard enough time keeping ground from being lost here," The British man growled, getting increasingly annoyed with the Frenchman's tone and even more so with the entire situation. Since the start of this damn war neither of them could agree on anything - not strategy, not tactics, not even what the hell was on the dinner menu. French rations included canned beef, some kind of greasy stringed slop masquerading as vegetables, and red wine. Wine! On the battlefield! What cylinders was this man functioning on?_

_That said, Francis looked like he could use a drink...or five, considering how impossibly pale and shaken he was. He hadn't faired well since the Germans first took Belgium and broke into his territory in August. In just one month Francis had lost weight, color, and with each passing day it seemed he was loosing his faith as well. England could remember a time when the man and country he represented were as brazen and overconfident as several of their belligerent enemies were now, but Arthur could never remember a time when he had seen Francis this terrified about loosing. _

_While neither of them were strangers to being on the failing side of war, neither of them had encountered one of this magnitude. It seemed few countries in this world weren't involved in this war in some way, and those who had been the clear favorites to win were barely hanging on by the threads of sheer determination and chance. The ways in which war had been waged for centuries had changed, and it seemed it was continuing to do so day by day. Just when the oldest of veteran nations were getting the hang of this new rifle or that new battle tactic, their enemies introduced something else and it sent them reeling. Yesterday it had been hi-powered machine guns, today it had been mustard gas...they all dreaded what tomorrow would bring._

_Neither of them would admit it, especially not to each other...but the feeling of terrible inadequacy with these modern times had dawned more than once. How could they beat an enemy that was light years ahead of them in technology and strategy? This was no longer a "gentleman's war"...this was fucking chaos._

_A moan of despair from Francis snapped Arthur from his thoughts, the Englishman looking up in time to see the other man stumble and barely catch himself on the edge of the table. His blond head hung, blue eyes clamping shut as his arms wrapped around his middle and a look of utter agony crossed his features. A spasm shook his body, a straggled breath made it sound like his lungs were ready to give at any moment, and his knees appeared seconds from folding. It was a tense few minutes, but the Brit never moved as he apathetically watched his counterpart try to keep from falling apart. Arthur knew that the sudden episode was a reflection of something happening elsewhere; a battle between French forces and the armies of the Central Powers was not going well, and Francis was suffering for it. _

_Arthur knew what the pain of battle on one's home soil felt like; ironically enough, Francis had been one of the many enemies he'd had over his incalculable life who had caused him such wretchedness. In his younger days the loss of a single village had caused him intense pain, a large town...pure agony. Invasions were the worst sort of physical torment any nation could endure, and the economical after effects of war were the worst illnesses. Right now, France was enduring both simultaneously..._

_Arthur would have had sympathy for the Frenchman...if he weren't bleeding all over his freshly laid maps._

_Francis's breaths were still coming fast and hard, but his body seemed to relax, indicating that the moment had passed. His face smoothed for only a moment before retaking a sorrowful expression, as a scene played for him that Arthur could not see. But that was fine...Arthur didn't need the details...Death, destruction, mass slaughter, he knew what those things looked like - he didn't need to see it through Francis's eyes to understand._

_"Mon Dieu, Angleterre...Fort Douaumont has fallen..."_

_Arthur said nothing. His eyes remained on the blood drops splattered over a greater portion of north east France on the table-laid map. Thin trails of crimson spilled from Francis's mouth onto the parchment, covering the landscape, before the Frenchman used his sleeve to wipe his stained lips. The action was testament enough to just how incredibly off the man was at the moment...he never would have willingly soiled his own clothes (already filthy or not) in any prior situation of war or peacetime._

"_...I am sorry, Angleterre...the decision is out of my hands. I...we...must protect Verdun. You will have to take Somme alone."_

_Arthur's eyes suddenly flew open; his face paling beneath sweat glued bangs, and his hands on the desk suddenly became fists. Take...Somme alone?_

"_...What?"_

_Francis closed his eyes as another wave of pain passed, intense guilt interlaced with the acute flashes of fluctuating heat and daggerish frost. People being consumed by fire fights - people dying seconds after. "...Fort Douaumont...it was the last stronghold between the Germans and V-Verdun..." The Frenchman's remained down, bangs obscuring his face, as he felt as though he could have wept. "I am sorry my friend...but I cannot give you full support in Somme when Verdun is so vulnerable."_

_A tense silence passed between them, and for a while Francis didn't think Arthur was breathing._

"_You..." Arthur's voice began starting shocked and breathless, suddenly rose to a hysterical pitch as he slammed his fist down on the desk, unintentionally right overtop of Paris. "YOU BLOODY FROG! YOU INCONCEIVABLE BASTARD! This offensive has been planned for months, you can't just back out! COWARD!"_

_Francis winced at the sudden outburst, but he didn't retreat as he looked back up at the enraged Briton with firm, but apologetic eyes. It hadn't been his decision to pull the majority of his joint support with Britain in the highly anticipated offensive, but Verdun was a critical point that stood between the Germans and Paris...his heart. He had to protect it, his leaders knew that as well. With the Fort accosted and now lost he had no choice. He had been hoping to persuade the British to switch their focus from Somme to Verdun before coming to this meeting, but now with Douaumont gone...there wasn't enough time to change the British high command or Arthur's mind._

"_...Forgive me, Angleterre...I will leave what forces I can to aid you, but I must protect Verdun-"_

_He never got to finish before the Frenchman found a gun leveled to his face. His blue eyes widened, stunned to see the barrel of a Webley Mk VI service revolver aimed at him, as it had an untold number of enemy combatants in this war. He wanted to look at Arthur and ask what on earth he was thinking, but he couldn't peel his stare way from the gun._

"_My people...my whole country has been in this war for two years now, fighting to save your bloody arse," He began, his voice very low and very dangerous. His eyes were locked on his target, fiery green orbs now as cold and hard as the bullets waiting to fire from the revolver in his hand. "My people are dying. Nearly my entire army has been wiped out, and what I've got left are volunteers who, as brave as they are, aren't nearly as well trained and equipped as their enemies. Now, we're on the verge of one of the greatest offensives of this war, the first real offensive we've managed to pull off, and you're backing out and leaving me and my men to hang." The hammer drew back on the revolver, and Arthur's aim never wavered. "...If there's a reason I shouldn't pull this trigger, now is the time."_

_Francis was very quiet. He was finally able to move his gaze from the gun to the man holding it, and what he saw at first in indignation and anger turned swiftly to horror and dismay. This war had done terrible things to them all, there was no denying how it had irreversibly changed everyone involved on both sides...but Arthur...he looked so..._

_"... Angleter-"_

_**-BANG-**_

* * *

The landscape was barren. Where there had once been lush fields and forests along the banks now lay a blackened and ash covered lunar surface. It looked like some alien beach smelling of dead fire, smoke, and cooked metal. The water of the once clean river looked brackish and oily, nearly a solid thing until boots broke through its surface and trudged through to the other side. Everything was eerily quiet. Desolation could not have been pictured more perfectly.

Arthur couldn't help but think that this wasn't one of Dante's famed levels of hell; he half expected Virgil to appear and welcome him to the Inner Circle of Violence. Arthur was pretty sure that if there was an afterlife and Alighieri cantos held merit, the Seventh Circle was where he'd end up.

Somme, once a beautiful river and fertile land, was now a monotone desert of raining ash. After a week of Allied artillery raining down on it like a Biblical plague, the region looked more surreal than an actual piece of northeast France. Zero-Hour was upon them, with the largest and most powerful bombs having gone off moments before and the greatest cannons ceasing fire as the infantry advanced.

Arthur walked with his men in the silent line leading out from the trenches, the smaller French divisions following after.

He hadn't killed Francis that night, but God he had wanted to. The French high command could not be deterred from protecting Verdun, even at the cost of leaving the British virtually alone in the beginning offensive in the northern and eastern parts of Somme. Promises had been made for reinforcements once Verdun was secure, but Arthur wasn't counting on it. The British Empire was going to be taking the bulk of the soldiers into this fight: British, Canadian, Australian, and several other Dominion groups. It made Arthur feel better that Canada had pledged the most support of his current and former colonies...unlike its southern neighbor who still refused to even-

No. He wasn't going to think about that right now. He needed to focus.

The sound of boots clomping over the dust caked ground was muffled and unsettling, like walking over mute snow. The sounds of belts clinking, leather creaking, and nervous hands clutching sweat slick rifles was just as bad. There was seemingly nothing around for miles, yet everything felt claustrophobic with the thick tension - just one man coughing had sent spikes of palpable fear exploding from the man next to him. Arthur tried to ignore it all as he and his men made their slow and silent march towards the smoking German trenches ahead. According to his commanders, they should be able to just "walk right through"; considering how much firepower they had dropped on the Germans' heads over the past week, most believed them. But...something about this just didn't feel right; for that matter, nothing about this war felt right.

Nothing about being in France felt right.

Each step was careful and tense; some men had their rifles up and at the ready, while others were surveying the damage around them in awe with their weapons held lax before them. Arthur's SMLE Mk III was up with the stock against his shoulder, his left hand on the bottom of the rifle's grip and his right index finger hovering just outside the trigger guard. He had been in this war since the start. He didn't like nor trust Germans and he certainly knew better than to underestimate them now. Some of his commanders begged to differ with him...but after what he had seen he'd sooner shoot the shadows than take any chances.

-_Click_-

Arthur froze.

The barbed wire of the German line was ahead of them. What remained of the razor barrier was tangled and rose up in some places like a great hedge of fangs while nothing more than nasty shrubberies remained in others. The smoke was still dense, too dense to make much out visually, but one didn't need eyes to sense the mounting realization of what was happening, or hear the clicking of machine gun rounds being chambered and magazines.

Oh God. What had they done?

"FALL BA-!"

"_FEUER_!"

Arthur's command never finished before the hail of machine gun fire ripped through the air and straight into the advancing British line. Blood exploded all around him, hot fluid and clumps of human flesh poured down on him in an instant, as the silence was as history as the monochromatic world around him.

Red. Everything was red now. Saturated with God forsaken red!

A few soldiers managed to discharge a round or two before being struck down, several luckier ones managed a few more and even took out a German through the blinding barrage. It was an all out slaughter, and Arthur couldn't believe that he had lead his men right into it. The Germans had known of the attack; British intelligence had been aware of the bunkers built and the fortified trenches well ahead of the offensive, but they had hit them with artillery to counter all of that! It should have destroyed everything!

Once again, the enemy was one step ahead. They had thrown everything the Empire had at them, and still-

A scream ripped through the air, drowning out the countless others around him as flaring pain exploded in his side and straight down to his hip. He felt like his nerve endings had been bashed apart with a blazing hot mallet fit for a giant, and his eyes screwed shut before he felt the melting heat of the wet earth against his back. So great was the pain in his side that he hadn't even felt the impact of the fall, but he knew from smell and feel alone than he was now prone on a ground soaked in blood. He was struggling to breathe; a shaking left hand reaching up to his side and tore a shriek from his throat the moment his chilled fingers went through cloth of his uniform and his touched shredded flesh, now gushing with thick fluid.

It wasn't that he hadn't been shot before, but dear God, he had never felt pain like this from bullet wounds in his life! Machine guns...oh God, he'd been hit with machine gun fire!

Arthur tried to control his breathing, tried to let his mind take control over his frantic emotions and even worse physical anguish, as he focused on the rifle still clutched in his right hand. All around him he could still hear men screaming, though there were considerably less now than seconds before, and he tried to sit up in the din of the smoky atmosphere, taking aim in the direction of the German lines.

The bastards had been playing dead, waiting for the British to get just close enough to where they couldn't retreat in time and then jumped up and opened fire. Bastards! Bloody bastards!

Arthur fired, unable to really see through the haze of bullets and smoke, but it didn't stop him from pulling back on the bolt and chambering another round in record time. He was trying to focus on something other than the incredible pain down his side and in his hip, and killing Germans felt like an excellent distraction.

Arthur fired again and again, even getting the satisfaction of noticing a slight reduction in the amount of return fire from the German trench.

However, when the ten round magazine was spent, his chambered bullets gone, and the rifle clicked empty, a terrible realization came over him...

No one else was firing back...and no one else was firing from his side.

Had it been...had it been hours? Just one? Minutes, since the silence had been shattered by the German ambush? It felt like an eternity and the blink of an eye all rolled into one. Arthur couldn't make heads or tails of the phenomenon. He was shaking, that he understood...shock, blood loss...fear. Yes, he was a nation, the British Empire, for Christ's sake, but he had never felt more human or more vulnerable since this damn war had started to slip through his fingers. His men were bleeding, dying...dead...His country was bleeding, here in France and back home...

He looked down and stared at what was once his left side with macabre wonder...He was bleeding, and he felt...incredible nothingness.

He didn't have to look around to know that nothingness was exactly what he would find left of his men.

Considering the direction they were coming from the sounds of footsteps should have worried him, but right now he couldn't bring himself to look away from the ravaged remains of his side. His left arm shook in its effort to hold him up, his right was limp and still gripping the empty rifle. He couldn't feel his left leg that lay sprawled in the bloody ash before him, and his right wasn't much better off...it looked like he'd been clipped in the thigh as well...Funny, he hadn't felt that one.

The muffled footsteps drew closer and then stopped in front of him. A large shadow drew across him in the early morning light...or at least it eclipsed what little penetrated the thick cloud of dying flames and gun-smoke.

The shadow's maker said nothing, and after a time Arthur finally lifted his unfocused gaze to behold the day's victor. His vision was blurry, but the figure before him in the German officer's attire was unmistakably the same man who he had declared war on...two year ago? ...Two centuries ago? ...He lost count...

"...That was a foolish thing to do, Britain. Your men have paid dearly for your mistake."

"..." Arthur had nothing to say at first, and then he felt a bitter irony come over him. "You know, kraut, you're starting to sound a lot like a frog."

The German's expression did not change, nor did he care to understand or comment on the Englishman's response. Instead, he pulled a Luger pistol from his side and aimed it down at the wounded man's head...again, the irony was not lost on Arthur.

But as he had not been able to kill Francis, he had every confidence that the German would kill him...or at least, kill him in the sense that he'd be as close to dead as one of _their_ kind could be.

In his life, Arthur had suffered through every possible method of death possible. He had suffered daggers, spears, swords, and even been leveled by an axe. He had been shot, suffered falls from incredible heights, been drowned and even left imprisoned and forgotten under a tyrannical invader's rule for decades. He had been burned alive, executed, even ripped in half by his own country in a civil war...still, he had survived...he always did...they all always did. So long as the heart of the nation still lived, so to would its embodiment - its avatar. But each mortal wound brought upon the avatar dealt a terrible blow to the people they represented; each wound and 'death' endured in war was a battle and conflict lost. Every time they stopped breathing was the end of an era, each time they bled their last drop, literal and metaphorical famines desecrated their people. It was the worst kind of checkmate imaginable...the stakes were always amounted in lives, and the losses always catastrophic in nature.

Still, regardless of the pain he was in and the bitterness of his defeat, the terrible irony of the situation and his struggle to remain conscious...Arthur gave the German a blank stare in return for the promise of execution. He could take the bullet, but he wouldn't give Ludwig the satisfaction of seeing him cower. Today, this battle was lost and there was nothing he could do about it. More than just the men present with him this morning would die...the only respite he would have would be that he'd never see the vast number of deaths before he recovered from whatever the German did to him. These modern day weapons...the damage took so much longer to heal.

"You should have never come here, Empire," The German began as he started to depress the trigger. "You should never have tried to be a hero."

Arthur's eyes widened a fraction.

**-_BANG_-**

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

Hello, everyone! First off, I thank you greatly for reading the first chapter of my WWI fanfiction. :) If you're a returning reader, thank you kindly for giving me a second chance to share my work with you-if this is your first time, I hope I've made this worth your time and you've enjoyed the piece! I've been a lover of history all my life, and being American the majority of my expertise lie in aspects of history with American involvement...but recently (especially since becoming introduced to and falling in love with Hetalia) I've been trying to expand on my historical resume`. SO! Without further ado, the notes:

1.) My first Hetalia fanfiction, "You Were So Small", was an American Revolutionary fanfic that focused on the period just after America won its fight for independence. The style I used for the piece involved cutting back and forth between the story's "present" (being approximately early December 1783) to significant points of conflict during America's Revolutionary War. I interlaced the characters of Alfred, Arthur, and Francis (as these countries were the most significant during the war) throughout the actual historical events and tried to explain my view of how war effects a "country's avatar" (what I call the "nations" of Hetalia) physically and emotionally. I tried to use the same style and idea here in this fic with Arthur, Francis, and Ludwig (YAY FOR EUROPEANS! XD). I hope this style and this creative ideology doesn't offend anyone, :) its just kind of how I think it would happen as the events of war played out.

2.) The battles/conflicts referenced here are: The Battle of the Marne (also known as "The Miracle of Marne", which concluded in an Allied victory), FortDouaumont (a victory for the Central Powers), The Battle of Verdun (which, while a French/Allied victory, was an extremely bloody battle that had a combined total of nearly a million casualties; this was also the main reason France had to reroute many of its forces from the planned offensive at Somme in order to defend Verdun. However, the forces France left to aid in Somme were some, if not the, most effective in gaining and securing ground on the large area mapped out for the offensive), and, of course, The Battle of Somme (Sadly, Somme is considered Britain's "Verdun" of the war...in that the Allied troops there lost over 600,000 men, making it one of the most horrific and deadliest offensives in history). Since my text books I have here at home aren't as detailed as many books I could access if I could still get on campus (its winter break, so the library is closed), I had to rely mostly on the internet for information which makes me kind of cringe. If there are ANY inaccuracies, PLEASE point them out to me and I will make amends as soon as I am able! I know I have many international readers and I do not want to offend anyone with any inaccuracies in my historical referencing, so please let me know and I shall do my best to correct any mistakes. :) Thank you!

3.) THIS IS A CHAPTER PROJECT (albeit I do not anticipate it to be a long one), SO THERE IS MORE TO THE STORY! XD Check back later for more details. =^.^=

THANK YOU ALL AGAIN FOR READING! :D Best to all, and Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language

Chapter Two Characters:

-America/Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/Matthew Williams

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter II

_"Is it freedom or just an illusion?"_

[5 August, 1914]

"This isn't right, and you know it."

The man seated behind the large mahogany desk remained silent and stoic, his eyes never leaving the papers spread out before him, and his mind far from anything tangible at that moment. Violet colored eyes were grayer than he remembered, his blond hair still groomed and managed as always (safe for that curl), and his outfit was a pressed black suit that made him presentable for attending a funeral or, supposedly, a session with his prime minister. He looked weary and older than his twin remembered, but then again they hadn't seen each other in a long time. Relations had been tense since things in Europe began to heat up, and considering how attached his brother was with the powers across the Atlantic, the North American countries had been keen to avoid each other...especially the blue eyed one currently trying to contain his anger at the entire situation.

"Protest! Tell him no! Tell him and the rest of 'em that they can all kiss your ass and be done with it," Alfred continued, his voice rising in decimals as his restraint began to fade.

Matthew's eyes closed but beyond that he gave no reaction. "You and I both know that's not how this works."

"Bullshit!" Alfred shouted, rising from his chair in an instant and gripping the table between them. Considering the man's inhuman strength he could have easily destroyed the physical barrier between them, but he knew it wasn't the physical barrier he really needed to break. "If that bastard wants to go and declare war then let him, but don't let him drag you into it without a fight of your own. God, Matt, we both know you're stronger than that; now man up!"

The last of his words earned him a slight twitch in his twin's brow before the former finally looked up to meet his brother's enraged expression. However passionate and headstrong Alfred was Matthew knew it took more than righteous indignation and fury with his old father figure to make his brother act like this.

Alfred was afraid. Matthew saw it bright as day in the way his blue eyes wavered ever so slightly, in the small trails of sweat that ran down from his hairline and vanished into the collar of his starched shirt, the way his hands that gripped the table were shaking with each hard breath...

It's the reason Matthew didn't jump to his own feet and smack the man across the face.

"Alfred, Canada is a British Dominion…which means my country and I can govern ourselves, make our own decisions, and live in peace as we wish; this is all we have ever wanted," Matthew began, his voice still calm despite the thick tension coming off of the man before him. "However, in global matters like this, things are out of my hands. Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, if Britain goes to war then I am bound to support the empire in every way possible." His last words trailed somewhat, his gaze lowering slightly as his thoughts upon reading Britain's declaration returned.

"Matthew..." Alfred growled, eyes narrowing as his hands griped the table even harder. "He didn't even consult you, not once, before he dove head first into this mess, and now you're just going to support him and be his cannon fodder? That's unacceptable."

Now the other nation's patience had reached its limit, and in a move that startled Alfred, Matthew stood from his chair and slammed his hands down on his side of the desk. Alfred stared at Matthew's clenched hands before looking up as his twin's hardened and angry expression.

"You don't think I know what this is? You don't think I know what his commanders intend to do once my troops are on the ground? Of the two of us, Alfred, I think we can both agree on who is the more politically and internationally inclined one," The blond began with a harsh tone as he continued to voice his frustrations. "I've kept my relationship with Britain because, unlike you, I know how to politically negotiate the freedoms both I and my people need without resorting to full scale war. The majority of my people support Britain and the Allies because we are loyal subjects and know that we are as honor bound to defend our sovereign nation as we are bound by being a dominion. That you find this 'unacceptable' means nothing."

Silence stretched between them, their stares locked, before Alfred's eyes narrowed and the shock of Matthew's outburst dissipated. "What kind of freedom is it when you don't even have a say in the wars you're in?"

Matthew stared back at Alfred and had to suppress his urge to sigh. Of course Alfred would latch on to one concept and one concept only in his entire argument: freedom. Since he could remember Alfred had always been a spirited child who could never tolerate sitting still or being confined, as an adult he was much the same. Freedom, independence, nationalism, and pride...there wasn't much else Alfred needed to survive, but threaten even one of these things and no man or nation would ever see a more tenacious and frightening opponent. Matthew foresaw these attributes to be Alfred's down fall someday...all that pride and power, and none of the containment.

The Canadian suddenly felt tired and finally let his sigh escape. He knew all of this anger directed at him was really Alfred's fear that in his brother entering the war he would be next. The lower half of the North American continent had just come off a string of conflicts, one right after the other; and he wasn't surprised that Alfred wanted nothing to do with the war in Europe. It wasn't that Canada, his own nation, hadn't been dealing with its own problems in recent years, but that didn't mean Matthew didn't keep an eye one his brother from time to time.

Alfred had finally achieved conquering all of the south and south-west; he had fought Mexico for the rights to territories that nearly doubled his country's size, and then fought the Spanish Empire for the rights to its colonies in the Caribbean and the Pacific. Also during that time there had been a massive civil war...Alfred almost hadn't survived it, and while his nation continued to recover physically, Matthew knew Alfred had barely recovered mentally.

"Alfred..." Matthew began again and lowered his head, as he brought his left thumb and index finger up to rub his temples. He hadn't slept since Britain's message had arrived, and he was due shortly with Sir Robert Borden to discuss the formal pledge of support to Britain...but Alfred had arrived before he had so much as a chance for breakfast – not that he was very hungry anyway.

At the change in his twin's appearance, Alfred's expression softened and the pain and fear was a little more pronounced. In truth, his own boss didn't even know he had rushed up to Canada to speak with his brother...his president would probably not have been very happy with him for it either. But the American just couldn't sleep or do much of anything after the news reached him a few days ago. The realization that this really was coming down to something beyond Europe had him unable to remain in one position for any period of time. He had known about the tensions there for years and not really cared too much about it. His country still traded with Europe and its colonies – heck, their economies were more tied together than they had been since his days as British America – but as the majority of his people had considered it a "European problem" he too had dismissed it as such. Regardless...it didn't do much to extinguish the fear and keep him from looking over the ocean and thinking about what would happen if the war were brought home.

When the realization that war was really breaking out and a nation on his continent was going, his own brother no less, a lump of ice began to corrode his stomach...it was still at it even now.

If Canada ended up in this war, how long would it be before he was drug into it too?

"Matt...please...there has to be something you can do? Look, if you don't want to be involved in Europe's affairs then I'll talk to my boss and we can find a way to – "

"Alfred!" Matthew suddenly shouted, loathing to cut off his brother's desperate and hopeless optimism but he couldn't take it any longer. Their eyes met again and Matthew had regained his hard composure; Alfred, however, had winced and looked almost pleading. "Personal wants and diplomatic responsibilities rarely coincide. Do I want to go to war? No, I don't. Am I happy about this? It goes without saying that I'd rather burn that declaration rather than sign it. However, Britain has enough problems in Europe to worry about without me adding a fruitless fight for independence on top of it. I know where my loyalties and my obligations lie and that's final."

Alfred seemed to cringe at that and tried to counter with an angry retort, but his previous vigor and energy seemed to be failing him. Right now he felt like he was losing a brother he'd been taking for granted, to his former father over some war that didn't really involve either of them. He felt the sentiments of his own people who had furiously given up their own loved ones to causes they didn't believe in...he felt like a murderer every time one of his own people cursed him because someone they loved died in a conflict. Right now...he felt like Britain was a goddamn monster for going to war with practically all of Europe and then demanding Canada's cooperation without so much as a word. What gave him the right to go beyond his own boarders and haul Matt off to war like he was some chess piece on his checker board view of the world? It infuriated him. It enraged him. It made him even more grateful that he had fought for and won his independence from the empire. It was so frustrating that Matthew didn't seem to share his rage to the same extent...even worse was how Matthew actually seemed to care about the events in Europe, especially about Britain.

Alfred didn't want to believe this was the end of the discussion, he didn't want to think that there was nothing else he could do, but it was beginning to look that way. He hadn't come here with a plan by any means, he just wanted to talk to Matthew and hope his twin had a plan and it somehow involved his brother helping to keep him out of the war. He wanted Matthew to want his help...to need it and tell him what he could do to stop him from going to Europe. It was as unrealistic as it was childish of him, he knew that, but it still didn't stop him from trying.

It didn't matter that neither one of their bosses would ever condone interference or 'help' of any kind from the other, but Alfred sometimes wished he could set the nation half aside and just be Alfred. He wondered if Matthew ever wished for the same thing.

Matthew seemed to recognize his brother's inner struggle and his grip on the desk lessened, as his other hand slowly trailing over the paperwork on his desk. He was needed at the meeting with the prime minister, he didn't need the soft knock at the door to tell him that, but looking up at his brother tore him between wanting to stay and make things right with Alfred and his fulfilling his duty.

As usual, duty won out; it especially had to now after his big speech about national responsibility.

"Alfred – "

"Is there really nothing I can say to convince you not to do this?"

Matthew's eyes closed and he took a moment before shaking his head. He looked back up at Alfred and was met with a...resigned expression. Such a face did not suit his brother, it made him look too much like him. "No, Alfred, there is not."

Alfred's eyes lowered and he nodded, keeping quiet as the office doors behind them opened and a messenger entered, looking wearily between the two nations before receiving acknowledging gesture from Matthew. The brothers were silent and the tension in the room had lessened to a sorrowful degree. One withdrawn into his own thoughts and the other between steeling himself for the coming meeting with his human boss, and wanting to say something to comfort or thank his brother for his concern. The twins might not see eye to eye, but Matthew recognized the attempt for what it was...Alfred trying to help.

Finally, it was Alfred who looked up at Matthew with a half-hearted smile and eyes pooled with sadness, but he stopped gripping the desk and stood up straight. Matthew knew that Alfred had accepted that this meeting was over.

"Ya gotta do what you gotta do," Alfred said, looking down at the papers beneath his brother's hand. "'We all have leaders to answer to, whether we care for them or not...and someday you'll have your own form of government and some bloody git telling you what to do...and you better damn well do it'...right?"

Matthew's expression sank as Alfred looked back up at him with knowing and apologetic sky blue eyes.

The American didn't say another word as he turned from the desk and left the office, leaving the Canadian with his thoughts and the declaration laid out on the desk. Matthew was bound by his prime minister and the Prime Minister of England, his thoughts in the scheme of coming events meant about as much as Alfred's mattered to his own president.

Sadly...Alfred had only now come to realize that.

"Sir?"

"I'm coming."

* * *

It hadn't been long before America declared its neutrality, stating that it would not be drawn into the European conflict, but would continue to allow trade with both sides of the war. While the British naval blockade made trade with Germany increasingly difficult, not much effort had been made on the American side to overcome the obstacle. Germany, however, had found a way...announcing unrestricted submarine warfare and any ship, neutral or not, was fair game in hostile waters.

The _Lusitania_ had been the first break in America's neutrality. Despite Germany's efforts to mollify the nation with compensation over the loss of life and cargo, relations remained strained. In February of 1916, America tried once again to reach a peace agreement between Central and Allied Powers, sending dignitaries and its nation's avatar to London to meet with Britain's foreign minister Grey. However, the barely agreed upon House-Grey Memorandum did not last a month before the sinking of the British vessel _Sussex_ destroyed all attempts made at peace. The fury over Germany's lack of restraint only just overshadowed American anger with Britain over the Easter Rising in Dublin, which flared Irish-American tensions with the empire. However, it was the Zimmerman Telegram that arrived via British Intelligence that sealed the fate of America's thirty-two months of neutrality.

* * *

[1 April, 1917]

Alfred remembered standing across the desk from his boss, staring at the message with a mixture of shock and disbelief. President Wilson, too, looked both grim and disheartened. A copy of the message had been leaked to the papers and was now circulating throughout the country...and when the morning came there was going to be a drastic shift from indifference to demands for all-out war.

But not another war with Mexico, who had assured the U.S. that it had rejected Germany's proposal outright. America would be going to war in Europe...Alfred's hand fell and the telegram slipped from his fingers.

"It's inevitable." It wasn't a question any more.

His boss remained lost in thought for a long time before sighing and leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, chin resting on joined hands. His gaze was distant, but he knew what the man across from him was feeling - he felt it too.

"Who delivered this?"

"A messenger from London," The president said, looking up to meet Alfred's pained expression. "Not Lord Kirkland...according to Prime Minister George, he's still at the front."

Alfred fell into a quiet pause as he tried to come to terms with what was happening. He was so tired, the past few years had been tearing him apart as the conflicting opinions of his people, his bosses, and his own views battled within him. Keeping relations with Germany had left a terrible taste in his mouth, and the shame he felt at the thought of Matthew...and even Arthur fighting in France while he was safely protected on the far side of the Atlantic made him sick at night. Regardless, he believed in his boss's attempts to negotiate a peaceful resolution without risking American lives in a war he was still angry about. Still, just as it had been inevitable for Matthew to go, it looked like his 'protesting' was finally over.

"That's where I'll be going, isn't it?"

"It's something we've both tried very hard to avoid, Alfred. I know how you feel, but I won't lie to you, I'm going to be addressing Congress tomorrow and I'm going to have to ask for a declaration of war. I can't imagine the request being denied," The human began, his tone solemn as he watched the young nation resigning himself to the facts. "Roosevelt will be happy...he knew this neutrality wouldn't last."

At the mention of his previous boss, a man Alfred had actually liked and admired, his fists clenched. It had been one bone of contention between them that his former president so steadfastly advocated that supporting the Allies was the "true American thing to do", and anything less was pure cowardice. It was one of the main reasons Alfred had avoided the man for so long, especially after Wilson's successful reelection where Roosevelt's candidate had lost. However much respect he had for the man, he just couldn't bring himself to agree with him about the war. The country had always leaned more towards the side of Britain and the rest of the Allies, but to cut all ties with Germany when the empire hadn't done anything directly to his country just felt like...like he was letting Britain dictate his foreign policy all over again.

America was conflicted, but would never denounce its independence or policies because it made Britain unhappy.

It all seemed so childish now.

"Our military is only about 300,000 troops strong. We're still dealing with the uprising in the Philippines and we're not exactly practiced in the kind of warfare that's happening out there," Alfred said, sadness overtaking him again. "We're going to take heavy casualties."

The president gave a sad smile in return and looked down at his desk, "Not nearly as many as our allies already have, Alfred. That is the only small comfort I can offer.

Alfred winced at the thought. By God...had this war really been going on for three years? How many had died because of it? He didn't want to complete that train of thought.

The president slowly stood from his place behind the Resolute Desk and drew Alfred's attention back to him. The Oval Office was quiet and lit with dim electric lighting, the windows were dark, as it was past midnight, and while the American people were still sleeping at this late hour Alfred knew for a fact that the offices of the West Wing were bursting with activity just outside the doors behind him. He would have to walk through them to...

Where would he go? Home? His room here in the White House? Would he head to the Cabinet Room and get a jump start on the excruciating meetings ahead? There was a lot of work to be done, he knew; this wouldn't be the first time his country had declared war on someone. But he just couldn't bring himself to do anything to forward those plans at the moment.

It was an odd feeling inside of him, like now that it was an inevitable thing he had all the time in the world to put his name on a piece of paper. Yet, in reality, he knew he only had until Congress gave final approval to the president's request, and who knew how long or how soon that would be. It was going to happen, but the time table was completely in the air.

It hadn't been that way for Matthew. He hadn't had any time at all...any time at all...

"Alfred, I'm going to bed," The president began, putting his hands in the pockets of his blazer and giving his nation's avatar a half-hearted smile of reassurance. They were both exhausted, so much so that neither one of them had much left energy to lie about the possibility of making this a cheery situation. "I'm not so unacquainted with you that I'd suggest you get some rest too, as you'll never do it; but I will suggest that you take a walk and try to put some things into perspective before we approach Congress tomorrow. I know this is not the ideal situation for either of us, but I'm not a man who believes that good cannot be found in even the darkest of hours. If I recall, neither are you."

With that, the president rounded the desk and walked over to Alfred, placing a firm pat on the blond's shoulder before the old man crossed the floor and exited the Oval Office; leaving Alfred standing in the center of the room alone.

Wilson was his 28th president, and compared to his predecessors Alfred ranked him among his favorites. Washington had been the man who brought the nation together and to victory in the Revolution, but for Alfred, he had been the replacement father figure when Britain withdrew nearly all ties with him. Adams, Jefferson, and Madison had taken up the roles as Alfred had grown into his own and began to really function as a national avatar should. Madison had struggled with him through the War of 1812 (where Arthur had captured his nation's capital and burned the White House to the ground), and without Lincoln he never would have survived the Civil War.

Of all his presidents, other than Washington, Lincoln had gone through the most with him. The Civil War had damn near obliterated his mind, as half as him set out on a quest to destroy the other. It had been four years of absolute hell, and more than once he had nearly lost control and attacked his own president. Trying to serve two masters at once had been too much for him; between Davis screaming for the blood of the North and Lincoln demanding surrender or war with the South, he could barely function.

He still had nightmares about it, about nearly loosing himself and dying as the hatred and screams of his country echoed endlessly in his mind, day and night. When it was over it had taken him what felt like ages to recover enough to return to his duties in government. When Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth...Alfred had dropped on the spot and fallen comatose until Johnson was hastily sworn in. Three other presidents had been assassinated since then, each causing the young avatar to fall until the successor took his place, and Alfred had never understood the terrible reaction his body had to each event. While mourning his boss the first time it had happened, he had had the overwhelming urge to contact his former mentor and father to demand the answers to what else he didn't know about being a nation. But the thought was quickly dashed the moment Lincoln's casket appeared before him and the hatred returned.

Britain had supported the Confederacy during the war that nearly ripped him to shreds and ultimately killed his president and dear friend. If he ever spoke with the bastard again...it would be all too soon.

Theodore Roosevelt had been his saving grace when McKinley was assassinated, and of all his presidents since Lincoln, Roosevelt had been the one who returned Alfred to his former self in granting him the most freedom of any of his predecessors. Roosevelt had been young and energetic, eager to broaden America's horizons and reestablish ties with the world. Alfred hadn't spoken to Arthur much before Roosevelt had come to office, but the man had been determined to mend ties with Britain and form bonds beyond the borders. Alfred had been nervous about it at first, but he had gone along with his president's wishes and made the attempt.

While Roosevelt and Britain's bosses were on sporting good terms, Alfred and Arthur were as unsure of each other as ever. Their transgressions against each other were older than their human masters, so things were not so easy to repair.

Taft's election further supported relations with Britain, and then France, but the man blundered all hopes of keeping ties with Canada strong. Alfred had not been pleased about it, preferring to have had a stronger relationship with his brother than anyone in Europe, but once again, it was out of his hands.

Now he had Wilson. This man was older and didn't have the same militaristic sense of Washington or the wisdom and council of Lincoln; and he didn't have the vigor and vibrancy of Roosevelt either. But he did have a strong sense of peace and a genuine desire to do what he felt was best for his country. He had a lot of critics, former presidents included, but Alfred admired his ability to keep his chin high and his convictions strong. Neither of them had wanted this war, and the people hadn't wanted it either...but now it was here and Alfred hoped to God the man channeled some of his predecessors' stronger attributes and managed a hold on his own. If Alfred had to go then he would go, but he wanted a leader with a good head on his shoulders leading the way.

The country trusted Wilson. So Alfred trusted Wilson.

What more could he do but put faith in him?

"At least it's not some bloody git telling me what to do," Alfred said to the emptiness around him. He looked up at the presidential seal before him, and higher still to the two flags behind the desk: his president's and his own. The fight for those stars and stripes had been long and bloody, his democracy had risen from depths no one in the international community ever thought survivable, and he had seen his country become something...truly great.

Now it was time to prove to the rest of the world just how great it was.

"Alright, Arthur..." He whispered, as he bent down to pick up the telegram he had dropped earlier. He glanced over the words one last time before his eyes narrowed, fingers clenching around the hated note as if destroying it would make all the pain over this decision go away. "Here's me accepting your final invitation. I hope you're satisfied."

* * *

[2 April, 1917]

"It is a distressing and oppressive duty, Gentlemen of the Congress, which I have performed in thus addressing you. There are, it may be, many months of fiery trial and sacrifice ahead of us. It is a fearful thing to lead this great peaceful people into war, into the most terrible and disastrous of all wars, civilization itself seeming to be in the balance. But the right is more precious than peace, and we shall fight for the things which we have always carried nearest our hearts,—for democracy, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own governments, for the rights and liberties of small nations, for a universal dominion of right by such a concert of free peoples as shall bring peace and safety to all nations and make the world itself at last free. To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can do no other."

-Thomas Woodrow Wilson, 28th President of the United States of America

* * *

On April 6th, 1917, nearly three years after the start of the war, the U.S. Congress declared war on Germany. Entering the war as an associate power of the Allied Forces, Americans first hit the grounds of Europe in June of 1917.

* * *

[26 June, 1917]

"Yo, Arthur, you wanted to see me?"

_To Be Continued_...

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Sorry this took so long to get up! I've been working all through the holidays and haven't had much time to write much beyond filling up my notebook with World War I notes. So, FINALLY I've gotten to Alfred and tackled my first attempt at portraying Canada and...I REALLY HOPE I DIDN'T SCREW IT UP! Huge props to **KitakLaw** (who is amazing, BTW) for helping me with Matthew's character development and all things Canadian. :) You rock, **Kitak**! As for the rest of the fic...maaaaan did this take a lot of research to pull together. So let's break it down:

1.) To my knowledge there was never any formal meeting between Canada and the U.S. before the outbreak of World War I about the war. The meeting between Matthew and Alfred is totally fictionalized by yours truly, but I'd like to think Alfred had enough concern to make such a trip and...well...be all _Alfredie_. However, it is completely true that Canada's involvement in WWI was the result of Britain declaring war and Canada having to support them by default (thank you again, Kitak for explaining dominions to me). According to what I've read, most English-speaking Canadians were behind supporting Britain and the war effort, but there was a stark divide with the French-speaking Canadians that caused a lot of tension. ): I feel bad for Matthew...poor guy.

2.) Alfred's "git" quote while speaking with Matthew is a quote from Arthur in my first fanfic about the Revolutionary War, "You Were So Small". X3 Yep, see Arthur, you CAN teach the boy something!

3.) Okay, there's a lot of American history coming up, so here goes: America took a stance of neutrality from the start of the war in 1914 until they entered the war in 1917. However, during this time the U.S. was still honoring trades with members of BOTH the Allied and Central powers, though opinions and favor was still geared more towards the Allied side. The infamous_Lusitania_ sinking was one of many bones of contention between America and Germany, but after each American interest was damaged or U.S. citizen was harmed or killed during America's period of neutrality, Germany compensated the U.S. with the hopes of keeping them neutral. This, however, did not keep America's hands out of the war in the capacity that they made repeated attempts to make contact with British, French, and German leaders to negotiate a peaceful end to the war. While there were a few close successes, they all ultimately ended in failure. When the serious problems on the Russian front began to show (their civil war brewing and causing much of Russia's army to commit mutiny or return to Russia) the Central Powers thought not having eastern front to worry about would allow them to focus solely on taking out France. With the fear of the U.S. coming out of neutrality, Germany withdrew its promise not to engage in unrestricted submarine warfare and sent the fated Zimmerman Telegram to Mexico. Unfortunately for the Germans, the British had intercepted the telegram and sent it to the U.S. to show them that Germany had no intention of keeping this conflict in Europe. If you don't already know, the Zimmerman Telegram basically promised Mexico "generous financial support" and the return of all territory lost to the U.S. during the last Mexican-American War if Mexico promised to declare war on America should neutrality be broken. It is believed that the idea was to keep America busy protecting its own flank and therefore too occupied to come into the war in Europe on the Allies' side. This was the straw that broke the camel's back and forced President Wilson to go before Congress and ask for the declaration of war on Germany. The large quote I used at the end was direct from his speech before Congress on the day after the Zimmerman Telegram was received.

4.) Quick note: I mentioned in here about the Easter Rising in Dublin, Ireland as one of the reasons Americans had such a bad opinion of England before entering the war. The Easter Uprising was a rebellion in Ireland against England, hoping to oust them from the country and force England to meet the demands of the Irish Republican Brotherhood to recognize and free and independent Ireland. The rebellion ended with the deaths of civilians and the executions of the rebellion leaders, which did not help Irish-American views in the United States. (Yep, we have quite the Irish population in the U.S. :) Yours truly being a descendent of them.)

5.) Before WWI, America was less than 100 years in coming out of the Mexican-American War, the Spanish-American War, and the Civil War. Three presidents had been assassinated up to this point, there was an independence war going on in the Philippines (the Philippines having been annexed by the U.S. after the Spanish Empire's loss in the Spanish-American war), and the American home front was becoming more and more in favor of isolationism (though that didn't get taken to the extreme until the conclusion of WWI). Therefore...I can see why Alfred would be less than keen on getting involved with the war in Europe, even though he's personally conflicted over it considering both Matthew and Arthur are there. But at the end of this chapter, Alfred is indeed in Europe...X3 though you'll have to wait until chapter 3 to find out what happens next.

*panting* Okay...it's now past 1am and I'm really tired...off to bed with me. Enjoy the chapter and I hope to have the next up as soon as I can. :) Thank you to all of you who have reviewed, favorited, and read my piece! YOU ALL ARE SO WONDERFUL!

Many Thanks Again,

_General Kitty Girl_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Blood, and Violence

Chapter Three Characters:

-England/Arthur Kirkland

-France/Francis Bonnefoy

-Canada/Matthew Williams

-America/Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero- **

Chapter III

_"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."_

Paris was a city of breath-taking grandeur, poise, and history. It swelled with the upmost careless elitism when foreigners were watching, and coughed silently in the shadows when eyes were averted. While the popular theaters, relaxing cafes, fine shops and classic restaurants remained open for business in the day, the marshal law imposed upon the city left the proud metropolis with bitterness and bruised pride in the dark. To many Parisians the war was either a tragedy happening worlds away or just something to read about in the newspapers. Yes there was tension, the underlying fear that the illusion wasn't real and the city's atmosphere of noble privilege would not save them from the nightmare creeping forth from the east...but for the most part it was ignored and life went on as usual. Some called this resilience; others would call it the attitude of a people trying to live whatever peaceful life they had left. The rest just called it the lying mindset of those who were intentionally ignorant to the reality less than a hundred miles from them, and stubbornly replacing fear with aloof arrogance.

The only people in this city who didn't seem to blend in were the ones who knew the truth, the soldiers returning from the front to a world they could hardly understand anymore. It didn't matter if they were wearing clean and freshly pressed uniforms or the civilian clothes of their stations, the people they walked past or even arm and arm with were like aliens. How could such luxuries be had when the trenches were living, breathing things? How could people fuss over what clothes and accessories to wear when millions were trapped in the same uniforms they had left home in, equip only with a helmet, rifle, and spade? How dare people complain about one dish being too bland and another being too cold when the people dying to keep this illusion only had military rations to live off of or sometimes nothing at all? While Parisians walked the streets with chins up, backs straight and whimsical laughter on their lips, the soldiers looked like drab phantoms wondering aimlessly in a plain of existence apart from the man next to him.

Having been forced to watch this display since his arrival, Arthur had been more than half tempted to pull his men out and let this glittering city burn.

Next month would mark a full year since the horrors had unfolded at Somme. While it had ended with an Allied victory nearly four months after it began, that first day had yielded more casualties for the British than any other battle of the war before or since. Arthur didn't know how long he had been left lying there in the mud, as dead as a nation could be from the ghastly wounds in his side and the one Germany had so graciously left in his head, but when he came to it had been Matthew's face he saw.

He had been kept in a private tent then, well behind their own lines that Matthew had tried to assure him were slowly moving forward. Unlike the soldiers returning to the barely accommodating medical tents, or lined up on litters outside them with little to no protection from the elements, field medicine would have done no good for one of his or Matthew's kind. He wouldn't have been surprised if a corpsman had mistaken him for truly dead and simply moved on to the next soldier, but Matthew would tell him nothing of how he had come to be there other than they had retaken the ground Arthur's company had tried to on that morning in July, where he had been found and taken into the Canadian's care. He knew there had to be more to it, but he had let it go since he wasn't even sure he really wanted to know. He had come in and out of consciousness as his body, and people, struggled to recover from the crippling losses. It wasn't until Somme had been officially declared over that he could even take full breaths without pain searing his insides.

Throughout the offensive, his wounds had healed then constantly reopened as more companies beyond him were torn apart by machine guns and left on the battlefield as he had been. Lying in that tent had caused him just as much agony as his wounds, he loathed not being out with his men where he belonged, but regardless of how many times he tried to push past his self-appointed caretaker and leave, Matthew had proven immovable until Arthur worked himself into exhaustion. He had grown to severely detest Matthew during that time, but he knew as much as Matthew that is was more anger over the pain and situation than it was for the Canadian. Through it all, the lad had remained with him but for a mission he undertook with his troops at Ancre and did not returned for two weeks. When he had he had brought news of the official end to the Somme offensive, and that a joint British and Canadian effort had done it with a victory at Ancre. While the news was the best Arthur had heard in months, he could still feel that the aftermath of the offensive had taken a drastic toll on his people...and subsequently, himself.

Even now, God, nearly a year later, he still felt twinges of pain down his left side. His perpetual headache before the battle was now forever worse, especially just above his right eye. Sunlight bothered him, loud noises were just as unwelcome, and having to stand for any long period of time was a trial. He had been away from Britain far too long...dangerously long, in fact. He was losing connection with the larger whole of his country and becoming so attuned to the only remnants of Britain here (his men) that he was taking on more and more human characteristics...and subsequent weaknesses.

He was the mighty British Empire, the largest in the world and the largest in known history. He had fought in wars and battles all over the world, he had been away from his homeland for years at a time...but this was by far the longest. He hadn't taken a single trip back home to rest and replenish himself since he first arrived here in France. The fighting here was hard and fierce, his people were barely hanging on as it was and they needed all the man power they could get. There was always the hope that one more offensive, one more rush for the German lines, and one more artillery campaign would be the end of it...but the reality was starting to set in that this was never ending.

Much like his headache. Much like his heartache.

Today, both pains would likely be aggravated as today was the day the Americans were arriving. Sir Haig had requested his presence during the initial meeting, pulling him from his place at the front lines and back to Paris, which sadly had not been a long enough trip. Arthur had had to trade his war torn uniform in for something starched, clean, and presentable; an officer's uniform he had worn since before leaving London ages ago. It was green in color, plain, adorned with his quality leather belt and officer's strap. His boots were high, polished, and as black as his mood upon trading his combat ready ones for them. He had resigned to his duty without an open fuss, but inside he was cringing to be in such a place, wearing what he was, and more than a little irritated that the Americans were late (as usual). The sooner they could get this over with, the better. Especially since Sir Haig had said that his American equivalent would be accompanying his human commander.

That had nearly made Arthur want to grab the nearest taxi for the deployment convoys outside the city, or grab his rifle and load a special bullet just for his "peer". But since he wasn't a coward who fled in the face of anyone and weapons weren't allowed at the meeting (which Arthur thought was absurd), he would have to weather this storm like any other.

Just like any other...right.

As Arthur stood by the tall French window overlooking the scenes of Paris below, the doors on the far side of the room opened and four men walked in.

Arthur turned; he recognized his own commander, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig, and the French commander, Marshal of France Joseph Joffre, accompanied by a tired Francis Boonefoy. Francis's lips were in a tight line as he nodded to Arthur, who may or may not have returned the gesture, and green eyes moved to the three humans in the room. Both of the Europeans were older men, the Frenchman more so than Sir Haig, both dressed in their military best as they entered alongside the third human that Arthur did not recognize. He wore a decorated American Army uniform, sported the face of a man about to grace sixty, but eyes far younger than his years. He carried his military cap under one arm, walked with mechanical precision like most seasoned men of the armed forces, and in his right hand was a leather brief case, heavy with who knew what. Arthur's interest in the man lingered only long enough to analyze him before he turned his eyes back towards the door for the expected sixth member of this meeting. He must have been staring for a while, as Sir Haig clearing his throat brought the nation's attention back to him and the other seated men at the large conference table.

His expression was mute and puzzled, as Francis caught his eyes and slowly shook his head. The look was meaningful, telling Arthur that the Frenchman knew exactly what he was thinking...and no, there would be no one else at this meeting.

There was a tense silence until the clipped tapping of Arthur's heels on the floor ended with him sitting beside his commander. The rest of the meeting might as well have continued without the avatar's presence for his mind was elsewhere, wondering how many ways he could strangle and skin an American.

* * *

His side was burning like acid, his head felt like a tank was trying to burst its way out of his skull, and he was having trouble breathing as he made long, purposeful, strides through the growing base area set up for the Americans just outside of Paris. Arthur hadn't bothered to change back into his battle fatigues when the meeting had adjourned, he hadn't even stayed to say more than a few words of stiff politeness to the commanders, and a few choice and venomous words for Francis if tried to stop him from leaving.

His entire walk through the base camp had been aggravating, seeing these young, eager, and clearly inexperienced Americans was driving him mad as they smiled, laughed, and joked with one another while checking equipment. Their uniforms were untouched by combat, their eyes did not hold the darkness of those in the trenches, and if he heard another man exclaiming that the heroes of France had arrived he was going to shoot him.

Yes, he had managed to arm himself before he left. That was a plus.

There was a large tent in the middle of the base with an American flag atop it, waving like an obnoxious handkerchief, and the Englishman's eyes narrowed as he picked up the pace in heading for it. A few soldiers turned their attention towards him, some confused as to what rank he was, as they didn't know how to read insignias beyond their own, but most parted like the Red Sea before him and didn't approach him in any way. He reached the tent and tore open the tent flap barrier, storming in and startling the people closest to him.

He would be lying if he didn't say he was a bit startled himself, but as a hush seemed to fall over the occupants on the tent and all eyes turned towards him, Arthur furiously thought to himself that he should have guessed that the biggest damn tent in an American camp was the bloody mess hall.

A man, probably someone with a smidgen of rank, walked over to him and nervously eyed the Englishman up and down. He was clearly unsure of what to make of the intruder beyond he was obviously an officer and more than likely not German; and if he was, then he was the dumbest in Europe for barging into an American camp like this. The human raised an eyebrow and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

Oh God, that bloody American accent. Arthur's headache increased a degree.

"I'm looking for Alfred Jones. Direct me to him at once if you know where he is, and if you don't then find me someone who does," He tersely replied.

Thankfully, aside from being affronted at the blatant rudeness, the American seemed a little more relaxed that the man was speaking English and not some language he didn't understand.

Typical.

"Sorry, sir, but that's a pretty common name. You got a rank, state, or at least a division reference I can go off of?"

Arthur's vision began to tinge with red as he took a menacing step forward before a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. The Englishman had to visibly restrain himself as he was touched, and stop himself from turning around to accost whoever was behind him. His fists clenched and he threw a furious glare over his shoulder to see the tall, brutish figure of a soldier frowning down at him. This was getting him very pissed off

"Remove your hand," Arthur said in a low and very dangerous voice.

"Sorry bub, but you're not starin' shit in here regardless of whoever the hell you are," The soldier replied, and all around Arthur could hear chairs being scooted back and the tension in the tent increasing. "I suggest you take your British ass elsewhere before we do it for you."

Arthur's expression was slowly going calm, but having the opposite effect on the atmosphere of the room. The first soldier who had approached him recognized it, and looked at the pistol holstered at the Englishman's side. He quickly tried to defuse the situation, but he was guessing things were beyond him now.

The troops had been on cramped ships for weeks, crossing the ocean to get to this foreign land and fight in a war not all of them agreed was their responsibility. Regardless of their president's orders, it did little to stroke the nerves of many, and this largely New England group didn't have the best opinions of the British; even though they were their strongest allies in this fight. A Brit storming into their stronghold, demanding one of their own like he was going to kill him, ruffled more than a few feathers.

Feathers the poor corporal was trying to comb before they exploded off the damn bird.

"Guys come on, this isn't the time. Look, I'll just take him to the higher ups and they can – "

Another person had come up behind Arthur and made a move to grab his other shoulder. All bets were off now, as Arthur had had enough.

Jerking his left shoulder away from the hand about to clamp down on it, Arthur rounded on the man on his right and slammed his fist into his solar plexus. The man's eyes bulged and he gasped, falling backwards before Arthur pivoted and landed a solid kick to his companion's chest.

Corporal "peace-keeper" and the entire tent watched two of their biggest guys go down, leveled by what they could only describe as a demented blond leprechaun.

All hell broke loose and a rush of pent up frustration, anger, and more than enough foreign resentment suddenly charged the British Empire.

Arthur defended himself and lashed out as though these Americans were the men on the other side of the Hindenburg Line, and not the troops of the nation who had come to aid him. It was an all-out brawl with Arthur in the middle, dropping men like rag dolls as they threw themselves at him in one monstrous tide. He had knocked more than enough away, sending them unconscious or broken with some injury to the floor. He felt cartilage and bones crack or completely give way beneath his more experienced blows as inexperienced opponents cried out and fell. More than once he felt blood spray against his skin or uniform, he knew he was going to be a mess by the time this was over.

He could have easily ended the fight by brandishing his gun, but for either being in favor of venting with some real hand to hand combat, or the choice that he would not be the first one to draw a weapon, he refrained and continued to pummel the American offensive the old fashion way.

However, it wasn't long before the numbers overwhelmed his ability to deflect them, and a strong boot heel to his inflamed side made his vision swim and speed falter a fraction. It was all the opening someone needed to tackle the off balance Englishman and take him face first to the floor. It was no longer a brawl, as soldier after soldier leapt onto the dog pile and forced any bit of air from Arthur's lungs. Someone got the idea to ram an elbow into his spine, sending shock waves of excruciating pain through every nerve.

Without warning, the crack of a gunshot brought the intense ruckus and shouting to a screeching halt. There was silence for a split second before heavy boot steps approached, stopped, and then the sounds of men being picked up and tossed reached Arthur at the bottom of the pile. The weight was lessening even faster as some men removed themselves as quickly as possible before whoever had entered forcibly removed them. Arthur was about ready to black out before the last person got off of him and a strong hand turned him onto his back.

His vision was blurry, his breaths were short and fast, and his head was pounding so badly he just wanted whoever had that gun to put him out of his misery. He wasn't granted that wish, as a man with a pair of sky blue eyes behind gold rimmed glasses, unruly blond hair with that ever familiar cowlick seated in the part of his bangs, and a half smile – half smirk greeted him. The man looked neither surprised nor particularly thrilled to see Arthur, especially not sprawled out on the mess-tent floor of the American base camp after having caused the events that lead to their current predicament. It was a rather embarrassing riot on day one of their official alliance.

Hell of a way to welcome his saving grace into the war.

"Yo, Arthur, you wanted to see me?" The American extended pleasantly, still looking at him with a kind of dark amusement.

Arthur didn't get to answer as he tried to draw in a deep breath, only to be strangled short by pain and the feeling of fiery heat in his left side. Blue eyes above him narrowed slightly in confusion before traveling down, and widening when they beheld the point of origin for Arthur's suffering.

"Jesus Christ – "

Arthur passed out.

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

I am sorry that this is so short, but I promise to get started on chapter 4 as soon as possible before work and school start ruling my life again. This is my last day of my 3 days off, so I tried to get as much accomplished as I could. ): I promise I'll be back to my 5-7k word counts next chapter and hopefully add in some damn humor, I miss writing banter!

Time for the notes~

1.) I took a lot of author's liberties with this chapter, especially about Matthew recovering Arthur, the meeting between the three Allied Commanders, and the American base camp. I shall explain: first, the area of Somme lost during the first day due to the German's "possum ambush" (yes, that scene in chapter one where the British blew the hell out of the German lines for a week, then marched over the damaged fields to "walk through" the pulverized German front only to be ambushed and gutted with machine gun fire by German's playing dead ACTUALLY happened) was recovered later by reinforcements on the British side, and to my knowledge the Canadian units were more south of this initial point. However, since I did not allot to Matthew/Canada as having been the one who trudge into the aftermath, found Arthur, and drug him back to the Allied line one can assume several scenarios as to how Arthur was saved. ;) Use those imaginations, people; I know you've got 'em. The second liberty with the commanders was in the actual meeting itself and not in the people. A meeting like this DID happen, but as to the location, who else besides the commanders were present, and the exact day and time of day I was unable to find. I know the Americans arrived in France in June of 1917, and officially tacked onto units on the 26th, therefore I have placed the time and setting around this date. For the last part, with the actual base camp, I know such a camp existed (as it did for all countries) safely behind Allied lines, but as to the actual location I can only say it was outside of Paris. ): Sorry.

2.) Yes, there was a LOT of resentment from and towards the American troops at the time, especially when it was established before our official entrance into the war that we would fight under our own flag, commanders, and strategy. We would coordinate efforts with other Allies and support them, but America wanted to keep its identity and strength separate from a lot of the integration happening with other troops on the ground. As you can see by the "mess-tent brawl", tension was pretty thick at the time.

I HOPE TO HAVE MORE UP SOON! Thank you once again to those who have reviewed (I try to thank every reviewer personally with a message, but here's another mass THANK YOU anyway), to those who favorited this story and my previous Hetalia fic. :) THANK YOU ALL! ENJOY THE CHAPTER!

Many Thanks Again,

_General Kitty Girl_


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Four Characters:

-England/Arthur Kirkland

-America/Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter I

_"We are beyond forgiveness."_

The first thing he noticed was the smell. His senses were piqued by a mixture of fresh industrial linen, damp earth, oiled leather, cold iron and sharp antiseptic. Had there been more chlorine and bodily scents to the air, he would have guessed he was in a hospital tent. However, the lack of those odors or the sounds of moaning, screaming or all-around chaos told him he wasn't. When his senses returned to a more self-aware state, he was alerted that he still had a ferocious headache, though not quite as bad as before, and all along his left side had become a dull throb. His muscles were lax, not nearly as stiff as they would have been on a medical litter or from lying on the ground, and when he slowly began to clench his hands he noticed he was grabbing...sheets? He was lying on something that wasn't incredibly comfortable, but certainly softer than anything he had slept on in...God, he didn't even know how long. The closest thing he could remember to it would have been when he awoke in Matthew's tent after Somme. He was completely befuddled as to where he was now, but opening his eyes was an incredible chore...

He just wanted to go back to sleep...even if it was just a little while longer...

The presence of something, or rather someone, shifting at his injured side gave him a knee-jerk tensing reaction. The Englishman's green eyes flew open and his first instinct had been to rise as quickly as possible to grab a gun-he immediately regretted the action. Even the dim glow of lantern light proved far too much for his sensitive optic nerves and quick movements far too much for his injured body, making his headache crescendo into a staccato tempo of pain while his side felt like someone grabbed two ends of his flesh and yanked. His stomach rolled from it, and he was sure that if someone didn't get him a bucket, he was going to vomit all over himself. Not a particularly pleasant idea.

"Whoa! Hey, take it easy, those stitches are new," the person next to him exclaimed, pushing him back onto the bed with a hand on his chest, and grabbing his left arm away from its place protecting his side.

Arthur froze as he placed the voice.

Definitely not Matthew.

The recognition was almost immediate, but as to why he was hearing it was really throwing him off. Stitches? Stitches be damned, he had had those before, but what the bloody hell-

The memory of the day was returning to him, and he inwardly wished he could just slip into oblivion again and die. He remembered the messenger from Paris, Sir Haig's request for his presence for the arrival of the Americans...how Alfred hadn't even bothered to show up with his human general, and then his rage-driven mission to find the little twat and drag him back to Paris kicking and screaming, if that's what it took. Of course, like most things these days, it had ended in absolute and spectacular failure.

Had he really started a brawl in an American mess-tent? ...No, he was claiming self-defense.

There was a sigh to his left and the sound of someone rising to their feet. "Damn it, Arthur, now I have to re-dress it. Don't move any more, I'll be right back."

Arthur stiffened at both the casual use of his human name and Alfred daring to give him orders. His heckles rose and he immediately wanted to rise up again and rip Alfred a new one, but another wave of nausea overtook him and he only got out a bitter groan.

So much for that idea.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile down as he tried to regain control of his breathing and carefully lifted his right arm to cover his eyes (moving the left just hurt too much). Now that he knew it was Alfred here, he certainly was not going to make this situation even more humiliating by loosing the contents of his stomach all over the place. It was bad enough about the fight in the mess-tent, having to be saved by the infuriating American, and now being patched up by him. Could today possibly get any worse? ...Wait, he didn't want to know the answer to that.

He didn't realize Alfred had returned until he felt the chill of cold metal against his skin, making him yelp from both the sensation and surprise as he instinctively pulled away.

He didn't make it far before a large hand pressed against his upper chest to pin him. "Geez! Will you just hold still? This was easier when you were unconscious," Alfred spat in annoyance, carefully cutting through the bandages despite his obvious loathing for his patient and the job.

Arthur's eyes were wide open now, right arm cocked back and ready to release a fist into Alfred's face (which annoyingly didn't seem to bother the American in the least), and venomous expression aimed at the man holding him down. "Unhand me!"

Alfred continued cutting, but slid his eyes over to glare at the man on the cot, "Then what? Let you walk back to Paris looking like the big bad Americans beat the crap out of you? I don't think so." With that, he finished scissoring off one section and tossed it away before returning for another. "I may not be as good at this as some other people I could mention, but I know enough about politics to recognize how bad that would look to our superiors. Now quit'cher bitchin' and relax."

Arthur was seeing red again. Anger was a powerful emotion and was helping him feel stronger, even if it was just for the moment. "How dare you! I take responsibility for my own damn actions, but your Yank-bastards were the ones who started it. Now remove yourself at once!"

The American returned him a look; at first it was very angry, but then shifted to something like the same dark amusement Arthur remembered before he passed out in the tent. Alfred was doing a poor job disguising how much he was enjoying this. "Don't worry, I took care of my 'Yank-bastards' after getting the whole story from the corporal you were rude to. Nice kid, you know, from Massachusetts? You remember that one, don't you?" Alfred said, tone sickly sweet before he ripped off the surgical tape keeping the thick padding over the stitches in place. Arthur had to bite his lower lip to keep from making any pained noises. "Where we took the first stand, and all?"

The Englishman hissed in response, glaring at Alfred with as much hate as he could muster, but it was quickly fading along with his energy the more he tried to keep it up. If Alfred was going to turn nursing into a profession of sadomasochism and history lessons, then he'd be better off shoving the American aside and marching right out of this bloody place. He intended to do just that, and he was going to accomplish his mission of dragging Alfred kicking and screaming with him; the bloody prick was important in this war now.

Though he would have preferred to drown the blue-eyed whelp in the mud, even in his enraged state he knew the Allies needed the Americans and their support. Regardless of their lack of experience, they would learn quickly or just become the next batch of German target practice. The Allies needed the manpower and the firepower if they wanted to change the current standings, so putting up with the Yanks was a necessary evil as far as Arthur was concerned. But with attitudes like this it was going to be nigh impossible to get along! Like it or not, Alfred was going to have to buck up, get in line, and learn to cooperate just like everyone else in the war...it was just going to be a pain in the ass to get him to do it.

"Go to hell, Alfred. You and your so-called help," Arthur muttered in a low voice through clenched teeth, putting his arm back over his eyes and just willing this to be over since he knew he wasn't getting out of it until Alfred finished.

Alfred gave a less than enthused snort. "Well, that's a nice way to thank an ally. I think I liked the tent brawl better."

Arthur didn't respond as he felt a new pad being pressed over the skin of his lower ribcage, taped, then another placed just below that one. The sequence was repeated in silence all the way down to the Englishman's hip, the end of the final pad being just below the waistband of his pants. Since he knew just what injuries had been reopened, Arthur felt a small amount of relief that not all of the wounds from Somme had been torn anew. The ones on his upper thigh and along his abdomen had remained closed...a small miracle, but he would take what he could get.

Even though a year had passed since he'd been 'killed' by Germany, the wounds never had the proper chance to heal, as the Empire had never been able to replenish the losses suffered at Somme. Canada had tried to help, both in nursing him as best he could, then bringing in more troops from his own country...but it could only go so far. As soon as Arthur could walk and was barely cleared to return to combat he had been rough and unrelenting on himself, throwing his person back into battles without any concern for his still-healing injuries. He couldn't recount how many times he had reopened the wounds or suffered new ones because of them; he had forgotten how many times he had re-stitched the largest lacerations himself, and repacked those he couldn't. They had actually been looking pretty good before the fight with the American soldiers...now...he didn't even want to know.

The original wounds had been ghastly. The German machine guns had ripped his left side and hip apart, cutting open areas of his stomach that he hadn't known about until he reawaken later in Matthew's care. Several of the bones of his ribcage had been fractured and splintered into soft tissue, and the lower lobe of his left lung had been all but obliterated. His spleen had been ruptured, areas of his large intestine shredded, and his left kidney had not survived. For their kind, organs healed fairly quickly, as soft tissue grew relatively faster than the denser osseous tissues, marrow and cartilage that made up bone. While the bullet wound to his leg that grazed his femur hadn't been too bad, his skull, ribs and shattered pelvis had been agony to recover from. As for the bullet wound to his head...well, there was a reason he had been unconscious for so long. Brain matter took an excessively long time to regenerate; next to the heart, it was the hardest organ to regrow.

While Matthew never went into detail, Arthur knew the lad must have spent hours on end removing whatever bullets hadn't fully penetrated and rogue shrapnel, and had to stitch the ever-regrowing skin constantly. He had been glad he'd never been aware for any of it.

"So...uh..." Alfred spoke, breaking the silence and the Englishman's train of thought. Arthur almost smirked; the boy had never been able to tolerate silence even as a child.

Git.

"How did you get these wounds anyway?" He asked curiously, now moving to spread the chilled strips of gauze over the pads. "I can't tell what made them."

Arthur continued to remain silent. He really wasn't up for conversation at the moment, especially not with the present company over the present topic. He could just picture the frown on Alfred's face as it became clear he wasn't going to say anything, and the tell-tale sigh of frustration from the that American followed.

Predictable git.

"Can you at least tell me who stitched you up the first time? It's obvious someone had to have, I can see the needle marks."

That one...Arthur decided he could answer. It wasn't tied to anything troublesome.

"Your brother. I dare say, I'm afraid to compare the work." Undoubtedly, Matthew's stitching had been far better than whatever Alfred had just done.

Suddenly, his companion's mood drastically changed from frustrated and annoyed to incredibly excited. Alfred hadn't even noticed when he had hastily applied a sticky gauze strip across Arthur's pectoral instead of his side, making Arthur shout in irritation. "Matthew? Hey, how is he? Is Canada doing well? I haven't heard much in the States, your journalists aren't exactly the fairest in covering everyone in this war, but I heard a bit about Vimy Ridge and that it was a huge success because of Canada. Where is he now? OH! Was he in Paris?" The sudden thought seemed to kill the smile on his face and up the urgency, "Oh my God! Is he still there? Maybe I can catch him before-"

Stitches or no stitches, Arthur couldn't take it anymore and used his right hand to wrench the pillow out from behind his head and smash it into Alfred's face.

The move seemed to surprise Alfred, as he almost fell off his stool and immediately lost track of whatever he'd been saying. Arthur released his pillowy weapon, letting it fall to the ground as he beheld Alfred's wide eyes behind skewed glasses, and expression of total indignation. "What the hell was that for?"

"You have the attention span of a gnat, you bloody prat!" Arthur retorted, his tone still managing to be outraged despite the pain. "You're supposed to be playing corpsman, not rattling off like a brain-deficient toddler about a meeting you've more than missed."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, looking a tad sheepish before his eyes narrowed and he frowned. "...So, was Matthew at the meeting?"

"NO, YOU INCOMPREHENSIBLE TWAT! God DAMN IT, why are you even here?" Arthur raged, flopping back against the cot as the last of his energy gave out, leaving him trying to catch his breath and block out the sight of the flinching man above him. He was incredibly tired and just wanted to go back to sleep and forget this entire day had happened.

Sadly, Alfred had both a talent and a history of denying him any kind of restful sleep or the ability to forget anything. The silence stretched between them a little longer before Arthur felt the lone strip on his chest being removed, and a new one being placed where it was meant to be on his side. Even without looking, Arthur could tell Alfred was lost in thought, something rare for the blond, but it did happen on occasion. It almost made him feel guilty about the outburst, but right now he felt entitled to a bit of outrage against his American counterpart.

Finally, when the last strip was placed, the sound of tape being drawn and cut signaled that the patch job was almost done. Alfred was careful when placing the tape, something that was again not characteristic of him, and he made sure to trace the outer edges of the pad below each strip of tape to ensure it was secure.

It was...odd...Arthur wasn't used to being tended to, let alone by Alfred, but as a child, Alfred had been a small boy with a big heart. Arthur remembered coming home on a few occasions, injured from some nameless battle with his enemies in Europe, and Alfred had always looked concerned and tried to do something to help him...whether it was getting him fresh bandages, making him tea, or doing extra chores to ensure his caretaker didn't have to.

It brought up another memory that Arthur couldn't help but smile at. On his way to America, he had encountered a group of French ships heading for Canada, a place he was in the process of wresting from French control during the Seven Years' War. He hadn't anticipated running into a naval battle with French ships yet, he had just returned home to give his rulers an update and resupply before heading back to North America where he would first check on his American colonies to the south then return to Canada and resume the war. The surprise battle had not gone well, but the ultimately superior British naval power prevailed. He made it back to America and was a complete mess...As the ship was being repaired in the harbor, he had returned to the house left for his colonial America and promptly fell into a deep sleep for days. When he awoke, he found himself still fully clothed and literally bandaged head to toe in one of the worst and most comical attempts at first aid he had ever seen. Alfred had been so self-conscious, standing there, completely flustered, and stammering away as he tried to explain that he had been trying to bandage all the injuries but couldn't figure out how without taking England's clothes off. Since he knew England would not have approved, he just wrapped up wherever he saw blood and hoped for the best.

Arthur didn't think he had ever laughed so hard in his life. He still didn't think he had since.

"...Thank you."

Alfred was in the process of applying the last of the tape when he looked up at Arthur in surprise. At first, he wasn't sure if he heard him right, he was pretty lost in remembering the same argument he had had with his boss before this whole war started, demanding why 'it was America's responsibility to take care of a European problem'. He had been preparing to yell at England once he was finished, but at the sudden 'thank you', Alfred was struck speechless for a time before the angry retort died inside.

He sighed and finished with the last of his work. "You're welcome."

Arthur flushed a little, not really used to thanking anyone for anything, and settled for re-covering his eyes with his right arm again. He was still incredibly tired and he hoped that showed...and gave him an excuse for hiding. "...I don't suppose my uniform jacket survived?"

Alfred seemed to perk up at that and smirked, "Nope. It's a goner."

Arthur frowned. "Don't sound too depressed about it," he halfheartedly bit back in sarcasm.

"Sorry, but there is no way you're going to be able to get that much blood out of green wool," Alfred continued, sounding back to his normally chipper self. "You can borrow something of mine until you get back to Paris...or your own camp, where ever that is."

The thought of returning to Paris, or anywhere for that matter, in an oversized American military uniform made the Englishman cringe. He was bloody British, and would rather be caught dead and naked than waltzing around in American army regalia. "No thank you."

At that, Alfred snorted and sat back on the stool, gathering up the medical supplies to return to a table beside the bed, "What, you'd rather be half-naked and walking back to Paris in the pouring rain? I don't think so; I'd have to change your bandages again."

Raining?

Arthur removed his arm and rose his head a bit, trying to ignore the headache as he squinted his eyes and peered through the partially opened tent flap on the far side of the area. Sure enough, it was dark outside and the lights were obscured by rain. The sound of drops hitting the canvas around them had gone unnoticed by him until then, and another groan escaped him before he flopped back against the cot in defeat.

He couldn't win no matter what he did.

"Rain doesn't bother me," he lied. He honestly hated rain. "I'll figure something out."

"Please," Alfred said with mocking patronization. "Like you'd walk all the way back to Paris in your state in this downpour."

Arthur partially lifted his arm and an eyebrow, giving Alfred a challenging look. "Has it really been that long since you were last in London?" It rained practically every damn day, and when it wasn't raining it was snowing. The weather in his country hadn't changed much over the centuries.

Suddenly, Alfred's eyes widened and he nearly pitched over, bursting out laughing. The sound startled Arthur, mostly due to the fact that the noise was so loud and boisterous, and partially due to the fact that he hadn't heard laughter in so long he nearly forgot what it sounded like-especially Alfred's.

What on earth?

"The last time I was in London, you threatened to deport me because I told the Queen her scones didn't suck as much as yours!" Alfred laughed, clutching his sides and really getting a kick out of the memory.

Arthur's face suddenly flushed with red. Oh God, of all the things he could have possibly forgotten...he had tried so hard to forget that one, the humiliation had been beyond imagination! He couldn't remember a time since the Revolution where he had been so shocked or so angry with Alfred's behavior, it had truly been teetering on blasphemous.

It had been just after the Spanish-American War, in which the Americans had surprisingly beaten the greater Spanish Empire and won rights to Puerto Rico, Guam, Cuba and the Philippines. England had originally been backing its fellow European empire, worried that America dabbling so close to its interests in the Caribbean would harm colonial claims and trading there. It had been America's boss McKinley, before his assassination, who forced Alfred to travel to England and reassure the people that America had no intention of throwing its hat into the empirical ring. Neither he nor Alfred had been on excellent terms at the time; Arthur knew Alfred was still furious with his involvement in aiding his Confederacy during the Civil War (though officially, both countries managed to sweep that under the rug), and the still-present tension among the American people made Alfred questionably stable at best. Civil wars were terrible things for national avatars...Arthur knew that firsthand, and knew they took generations of people to recover from.

When Alfred had arrived in London with his president's Secretary of State, he had been only as polite as absolutely necessary, sociable only when forced, and bitingly cynical and sarcastic when made to speak. Arthur knew going into a meeting with his heads of state would be a disaster, and Alfred had not disappointed. His one comment about the Queen's scones had Arthur marching him out the door so fast that their human hosts barely had time to register what had happened. It was the first time the two of them had gotten into a near full-on physical confrontation since the War of 1812, and it had taken dignitaries on both sides to break them up.

Diplomatically speaking, that had nearly been the end of it. But the American Secretary of State was a smart man and a smooth talker, calming tensions among the human bosses after a few days and finally settling matters that America wasn't interested in becoming an empire. Once cleared, Britain had withdrawn support from Spain and backed its American trading partner, wanting to keep ties firm and interests sound.

Alfred and Arthur, however, would not see nor speak to each other for many years after that; all for the best, most would say.

"You complete wanker, what the hell is wrong with you, bringing something like that up? This is neither the time nor place!" Arthur growled, scolding as best he could to keep from all-out shouting at the still laughing American.

Alfred eventually unfolded himself from his bent position on the stool and made a casual gesture with his hand, waving off England's venomous tone. "Chill out, Arthur, you need to lighten up. Yeah, neither of us was laughing about it then, but you've just got to look back at these things and laugh about them now."

Only Alfred would say something like that in the middle of a God-damn world war.

"That's not the point! ...God, you are so infuriating," Arthur ground out, covering his eyes again and trying to work himself down from a possible hernia. He didn't need any more problems, especially on account of Alfred.

As for the blond, he was still smiling but had managed to reign in his laughter. He let Arthur calm down for a moment before leaning forward over England a bit, fixing his glasses and grinning. "You know, before I left the States I promised that the first thing I was going to do when I saw you was punch you square in the face." The confession earned him the removal of Arthur's arm and the man glaring dangerously up at him. It was clear Arthur was now very uncomfortable with the American's close proximity, however Alfred, as usual, didn't seem to know or care to notice. "But, seeing as how you've managed to get nicely mangled before I got my hands on you, and I just finished fixing you up, I'll save that promise for another time and just let you off with a warning..." He winked and gave Arthur a pat on the leg. "Don't fuck with grouchy Americans around dinner time."

Arthur's expression went from threatening and defensive to utterly astounded and speechless as he silently watched Alfred push himself to his feet and stand. He stretched, then put his hands on his hips and motioned to the table next to the cot, still with that infuriating smile.

"I got ya some chow from the mess-tent just before you woke up; had you not torn your wounds and soiled the bandages when I got back, you'd have had a hot meal for tonight-but, since you decided to be an unruly patient, these are the consequences," he said and was about to say something else, but paused and apparently thought the better of it.

Alfred had been about to offer to help sit Arthur up so he could eat, but since he knew the proud Englishman would likely grab the pillow and throw it at him again, he decided to let it go and let Arthur help himself.

With that he turned to grab something off a trunk in the corner, olive drab rain gear like a large plastic poncho, and began pulling it on.

Arthur looked worried for a moment and put aside his shock long enough to test his left arm, attempting to use it to prop himself up on the cot. It hurt for a moment, but after a few breaths he had an easier time bearing it. "Wait, where the hell am I, anyway? Am I still in the American base camp?"

Alfred, still with his hood down but otherwise geared up for the weather, turned to look at him like he had asked a rather silly question. He seemed to be taking stock in Arthur being able to sit up a little and, satisfied, he nodded and straightened out the pull-over. "Yep. The guys thought it might be better to take you to the med tent, or ship you back to your own people, but I brought you here to my tent and it's been a good five or six hours..." Alfred was grabbing the edges of his hood before he paused and gave Arthur a meaningful look. "None of my guys really know who or what I am, but they know I've got Pershing's ear, so they assume I'm high ranking and do what I tell 'em. Likewise, they don't know about you...story goes, you're just some irate Englishman with possible brain damage, looking for some random American named Jones who may or may not even be a participant in this war. The best versions say you were looking for some kind of relative, the worst are that you were shit-faced drunk; either way, it ends with me taking you to get patched up then shipped out, so I suggest you not cause any more trouble, okay?"

Arthur looked affronted, but he supposed whatever gossip was running around was a lot better than the actual truth. Most humans, aside from their bosses and a privileged few underlings, had no idea national avatars existed...let alone their function in everyday life or conflicts such as this. However degrading and annoying, Arthur just gave a sigh of exasperation and had to accept the aftermath of what happened. It wasn't as if he ever expected to see these Americans again, especially not the individuals involved in the brawl, so what did it matter. There was one bright part of Alfred's speech that made him feel a little better...in a mildly sadistic sense.

Before, Alfred had demanded his obedience and cooperation; now the lad was-as politely as one such as Alfred could-politely requesting good behavior.

A small victory, but Arthur would take it.

He nodded. "Very well. So when does this 'shipping out' happen?"

Alfred returned a shrug. "Dunno. The storm is pretty wicked outside and we're not sure when it'll let up-this isn't a country we're used to-but when it does I'm arranging a vehicle to take you back to Paris." Alfred's head cocked to the side as a thought struck him. "That is where you need to go back to, right? Paris?"

As much as Arthur didn't want to admit it, he was, indeed, still needed in Paris and sighed, looking away. "Yes, that is where I need to return to."

The American seemed to understand and gave the Englishman a short, sympathetic smile. Neither one of their countries was on the best terms with France, but America was as well-versed in England's longstanding history of hate with France as was the rest of the world. The two seemed made to fight each other...which made the situation now of them fighting for each other so weird.

"You're coming with me."

Alfred blinked and gave Arthur a questioning look. "Huh? What's wrong with one of my guys driving you up? I promise it won't be anyone involved in today's fiasco, so you don't have to worry about that."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "No, you git, you personally need to come back to Paris with me. That was the whole point in me coming all the way out here, so don't think I'm not accomplishing it."

Alfred returned an amused snort and pulled his hood up as he turned towards the tent flap. "Yeah, we'll see about that. Enjoy the chow, I'll be back after I check in with my people and grab something for me to eat. See ya, England," he called out behind him as he stepped out into the darkness and vanished.

Only half sitting up on the cot, still looking out at the now closed tent flap, Arthur couldn't help but notice just how...quiet and empty the place felt now. Alfred's tent wasn't very big, but it was certainly larger than what the common soldiers were given. There was only one cot, the one Arthur was occupying, and a few other items scattered here and there. There was a trunk likely filled with uniforms and personal effects in the corner, the bedside table with the tray of now cold food, another larger table pressed against the side of the canvas with a few maps and papers on it; there was what looked like a locker leaning against it, and as it was half open, Arthur could see the shoulder strap of a rifle hanging out; and finally there was the open and near-empty med kit lying forgotten on the ground.

A sparse, disorganized and messy chaos...it was Alfred in every way.

Thinking back on Alfred's words, Arthur guessed that since he was going to get something to eat now...the American hadn't eaten before he had begun tending to his injuries. The sot probably didn't grab a thing when he had been out getting something for his patient, and since the food on the table looked completely untouched it meant that he hadn't thought to pick at that either.

Arthur sat in silence, looking at the food Alfred had left...but not really seeing it. He finally lay back against the cot, put his arm back up over his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

"Bloody git..."

To Be Continued

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

First off...I HAVE A BETA READER NOW! :D The wonderful beyond words J-Chan/Oneechan/Lady Hedervary/BIRTHDAY GIRL (yes, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, J-CHAN!) has become my Beta Editor and I love her forever! Therefore, this chapter is completely and 100% dedicated to her. :) HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLIN'! This said, she had quite a bit to read for me last night, so I've decided that this will be the end of this chapter and the rest will have to wait until chapter 5. XD I know, I'm bad.

Okay, ON TO THE NOTES!

1.) Please forgive all the formal medical terminology. XP I work at a hospital and have been raised around the medical field my entire life, so spewing out stuff like this is rather normal to me, though I recognize this is not so for everyone. Therefore, just know that the majority of the areas spoken of in terms of Arthur's injuries were the upper left side of his torso, and extended down to the upper portion of his left thigh. There's also a gun shot wound to the head, but that's rather self explanatory. XP In short, the Germans really f#$ed Iggy up, and he'd have been slaughtered in a second had he been human. For most people, if the spleen goes, then its only a matter of time. The spleen is one of the most blood filled organs, so its easy to bleed out if this is ruptured; as for the kidneys, you can live with just one but with trauma like England's he could have easily died from that too. Like wise, the resilient human body CAN go on with just one lung, you CAN survive with feet of intestines removed, and bones heal over time, but since we're talking about the time period we are...its not likely. So THANK GOD FOR ENGLAND BEING DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE TO KILL! :) Oh, and soiled bandages can lead to infection, so its very important to change them if they get excessively bloody or dirty. While nations (in my mind) can't be infected by conventional means, blood all over the place can still damage clothes and draw attention to the fact that "Hey, that guy's just lost gallons of blood, why isn't he dead?". On top of that, if you've ever had stitches like Iggy's (though I hope you haven't) then you know the importance of keeping the sites protected and padded to prevent possible accidental snagging and such. XP As someone who has had stitches (thank God not like Iggy's), PULLING ON STITCHES HURTS! DX

2.) American history time! "Yank" used to be (and still is, in a way) a derogatory term the British used to call New Englanders from colonial days, and still do. While after a time Americans started to laugh more about it than they got ticked off (Most New Englanders are either indifferent to it now or wear it with pride; New York even named their National Baseball Team the Yankees), most people overseas still see it as a cruel thing to call New England Americans. ;) By the way, I'm from New Jersey, and therefore a damn proud "Yank". Continuing: Massachusetts was one of the first of the American colonies to rebel before and during the Revolutionary War, and Concord, Massachusetts was where the infamous "shot heard 'round the world" kicked off the festivities. :) Read "You Were So Small" or an American text book for details.

3.) Canadian history (again, I thank KitakLaw for every and all inspiration and confirmation with all things Canadian): Part of the Battle of Arras, which was a British led offensive, the Canadians took charge of covering the Allies southern flank and viciously fought for and captured a strategic point known as Vimy Ridge. Within the very first day, the Canadians had been more successful than any of their Allied counter-parts and even pushed further than the ridge, capturing a few towns before forcing the Germans to retreat back to the safety of their main entrenched line. Beyond the clear strategic victory and the coverage they provided in protecting the southern flanks, it was the first time in the entire war all four divisions of Canadian troops fought together in a cohesive offensive. :) I hear this is a great point of pride for Canadians, as well it should be! XD

4.) The Seven Years War was sort of like the first unofficial world war, in that pretty much all of Europe was involved in it, and it crossed the ocean and was also fought on the North American continent. There were a vast amount of countries involved, and in the actual Hetalia description of it, we have England and Prussia (and a host of other smaller countries) teaming up against France, Russia, Spain, Sweden, Saxony, aaaand~ some other countries I know I'm forgetting. There is a lot to this war (come on, it went on for 7 years), but in the end it was a British/Prussian victory (though they ended up, pretty much, fighting the wars separately and signing two different treaties) and resulted in the loss of nearly every French colony in North America (pretty much killing French Empirical status in America and all of Canada). There is a much more detailed and excellently done account by KitakLaw under the title "After the Conqueror" and I highly recommend it. :) GO READ!

5.) MORE AMERICAN HISTORY! The Spanish-American War was one of the shortest in American history, that said, it yielded great profits and territories like Cuba, Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines (though today, only Guam and Puerto Rico remain U.S. territories, Cuba got its independence as promised in 1902, and the Philippines just after WWII). But during the beginning stages of the war, the British Empire, as many countries in Europe, had supported the Spanish Empire and been nervous about America trying to gain territories that might damage trade interests. It took president McKinley making great efforts to reassure Britain that America had no intentions of empiricism before Britain was satisfied and changed its backing from the Spanish Empire (who they never really got along with), to America (who they had hoped to strengthen ties with). The move ticked many in Europe off, but in the end America claimed victory in the Spanish-American War. Another note on President McKinley, he was the third U.S. president in our history to have been assassinated while in office. He was shot on September 5th, 1901, but survived and later died of infection 8 days later. President Theodore Roosevelt, who was vice president at the time, succeeded him in office. Both presidents were keen on foreign policy, especially on strengthening ties with England...for the purposes of this story, I had this as a bone of contention between his bosses and Alfred. XP He and Arthur are still on shaky ground at this point.

6.) Yes, it is true that England had supported the Confederacy during the Civil War for the purposes of trade interests and a long standing grudge with the former colonies/states in the north. While they avoided taking official blame by paying out a large sum for the damages caused by their interference, I can see this as a HUGE issue between Alfred and Arthur...as you can see.

Alrighty, I'm back to my crazy work schedule now, so please enjoy the chapter, thank you to all who reviewed, favorited, and stopped by to read. :) YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL READERS!

Sincerely,

General Kitty Girl


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Strong Themes, and Violence

Chapter Five Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/Alfred F. Jones

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter V

_"Your love, for our victory."_

"...Oh, do stop pouting."

Alfred continued to give Arthur the most sullen glare he could as he sat across from the man in the bed of the canvassed Army truck, en route to Paris. Neither blond was positively cheery about the trip, but while Arthur was still basking in the victory of having accomplished his mission, Alfred was trying not to punch that barely contained smugness off the Englishman's face.

Physically dragging Alfred back to Paris hadn't been a possibility in Arthur's condition, but he still managed to take him back kicking and screaming via other means.

* * *

_Arthur didn't know when Alfred had returned that night, or even if he had returned at all. The Englishman had fallen asleep not long after the American's departure, and when he awoke the blue-eyed blond was just there and a new tray of fresh food had been brought. Arthur hadn't seen any sleeping materials on the floor or another cot set up, so he was suspicious as to whether Alfred had simply surrendered the tent for the night or tidied up before his patient returned to consciousness._

_He wasn't sure how he felt about either prospect, but there had been an odd mixture of embarrassment and gratitude inside of him._

_Alfred hadn't mentioned how Arthur hadn't eaten the supper last night, he instead cheerfully chatted away about how another 10,000 troops would be arriving by the end of the week, how the supplies they had brought were being shipped out to the French and British lines starting this morning, and that General Pershing had sent word that he would be in Paris for a few days more...which left Alfred in charge of the American base camp._

_Alfred had briefly touched on the subject of the meeting in Paris, that he had convinced Pershing to let him stay and take care of things at the base camp since they were low on officers to handle official affairs at the moment. Pershing was a strict man and Arthur got the sense that he had fought Alfred on it, but in the end the General had decided that being on time to the meeting was more important than arguing with Alfred about something that was, in a roundabout way, logical._

_It still didn't make Arthur any happier with Alfred about it._

_Arthur listened quietly, sat on the edge of the cot, and ate the...not too tasteless food the American Army seemed to think was breakfast. Considering he hadn't eaten many hot meals since the start of the war, he wasn't about to openly complain. Alfred, however, seemed to notice his expression upon trying the steaming corned beef and bread, both of which, Alfred supplied, had begun their lives in a can, and offered to let Arthur try some of the Tabasco Sauce he had brought with him from the States. He had to sneak it into his personal effects before leaving, and promised just a little spritz of the stuff would be enough to ensure Arthur didn't have to suffer through tasting what he was eating. The Brit declined._

_Tabasco Sauce was something from America's Louisiana-a heavily French portion of the country-so he opted to deal with his steaming canned meat without the help of two countries he had quite frankly had enough of._

_Alfred had just shrugged-it only meant more hot sauce for him later._

_The high-calorie, low-taste, roasted mystery and toasted brick consumed, Arthur had to continue to suffer with the indignity of drinking tar-like coffee instead of tea. Not that he had had much tea in the past three years, but one had to selfishly hope one could at least get a bloody cup of tea in friendly territory..._

_But then again, these were Americans he was stuck with...bastards who had sooner thrown the damn tea into the harbor before they drank it._

_"So, now that mornin' chow time is over, feeling better?" Alfred asked, still bright and smiling as always...or at least when he wasn't around Europeans, but after last night the lad had seemed to take an exception to Arthur._

_Arthur knew it wouldn't last the afternoon._

_He sighed. "Well enough...thank you," the Englishman replied and decided to set his tin of coffee aside. He'd sooner drink cyanide...it would probably taste better. "So, you mentioned last night you'd be arranging transport to Paris," he carefully left out the part where he would be the soul passenger._

_Alfred beamed and nodded, "Oh yeah! I sent a radio message to Paris last night and let them know you were here. I tried to find someone who was more familiar with the routes to Paris but I didn't have too much success, so one of the vehicles that took the General up is coming back for you." Alfred hadn't noticed Arthur's previous evasion or was purposefully driving the point home that it was only Arthur getting in that vehicle. "They should be here within the hour."_

_Knowing Alfred, it was the former._

_"I see," Arthur replied thoughtfully, then fell silent as he appeared to fall into deep contemplation. Alfred looked at him curiously and was about to speak before Arthur cut him off, "Have you ever seen a tank?"_

_Alfred paused, "...Beg pardon?"_

_A large eyebrow rose and Arthur looked at the American with an expression of surprise and curiosity. "A tank. It's one of the modern armored battle vehicles we developed specifically for conquering the trenches. They truly are spectacular things, minus a few bugs here and there, and are impervious to gun fire. They're massive machines that barrel over any terrain and fire large caliber rounds from cannons mounted on turrets. We've been using them for...oh...I'd say two or three years now," he said, giving it a bit of thought before returning his American companion an inquiring look. "Are you saying you don't have them in America, yet?"_

_Alfred's eyes were wide and his mouth moderately gapping. He was blinking, clearly trying to picture the beast of a weapon Arthur was describing, all the while furiously trying to come up with an explanation or counter as to why his country obviously did not have it, or something like it._

_But Arthur already knew Americans didn't have them. Tanks were British inventions, killing machines designed to break the stalemate in trench warfare and get one up the Central Powers. It was a proud moment when the first Mark I's rolled onto the field and left the Germans gawking at the sight in utter confusion and panic. It didn't matter how long they fired, none of their bullets could stop the slow-moving behemoths from progressing across the field and opening fire on their lines._

_That said...the first models had not been without their problems; all great things have to have a start and the Mark I's had been no different. Mechanical errors were not uncommon and their slow speed made it difficult to strategically place them before the Germans either moved or discovered that they could snipe the fuel tanks and cause massive damage. The Mark II's were the newest versions and had just started battle testing in April of that year. They came in two types: one being of lighter armor and greater speed while the other was heavier and less destructible. A small number were now being put to use here in France and more were being rushed into production._

_They had to be...the damn Germans had captured enough Mark I's to have developed something on their own and the Allies needed to counter it...But Alfred didn't need to know that._

_"That's...cool..." The American said, after a while, needlessly fixing his glasses. "But Arthur, if these things are so badass, why haven't you won the war yet?"_

_Arthur blinked, coming out of his thoughts and looking at Alfred, who was looking a little bolder than he'd been before. Arthur would have expected a similar comment from the man's brother, albeit more eloquently worded, and it annoyed him that Alfred wasn't more impressed; that he had noticed Arthur's one flaw in bringing up the tank._

_It also annoyed him that he had asked that question plenty of times himself. He was predicting a hopefully more improved Mark III in the future._

_Arthur casually shrugged and recovered easily, looking indifferent to the question. "It's a sad thing, really. We have plenty of tanks, but not so many qualified operators to use them. They are rather intimidating things and it takes a certain kind of operator to take the helm." Which was partly bollocks, since there were plenty of brave and able British operators in their ranks, but once again Alfred didn't need to know that. "If you saw one, you'd understand."_

_Alfred seemed to lose a bit of confidence at that. There wasn't a damn thing he could think to challenge Arthur's word with since he didn't really know what the British Forces looked like. He was supposed to have been updated on it when Pershing returned..._

_At once the young man looked excited. Maybe when he was up to speed, Pershing would have information on these tank things and perhaps he could even put in a word to ask Britain's commander about assembling together a division of Americans to learn about and operate these-_

_Alfred's eyes slid up to the man on the cot. Arthur was awfully quiet, quiet and watching him with eyes that were entirely too interested in his reactions. The Brit was up to something and Alfred felt his stomach tighten; what the hell was Arthur playing at?_

_Suddenly, Alfred's eyes narrowed and he frowned. The blond crossed his arms and gave Arthur a scowl. "What's your point, Arthur?" he asked, keeping just shy of demanding. "If you wanted to brag you'd have just come right out and done it; if you wanted my help, you'd have either told me to go to hell or sent someone else to ask."_

_Silence stretched between them as Arthur tried to recover from_ that_ one. Alfred was immature, childish and one of the easiest people to manipulate when one knew which buttons to push. In short, Arthur considered Alfred to be everything he wasn't. The boy had always been direct and very easy to read, his emotions were on his sleeves and his eyes betrayed every thought in his head when his mouth wasn't beating them to the punch. Being such an open book, Arthur was sure he had read and memorized every page. Even the American Revolutionary War hadn't been...completely unexpected..._

_Perhaps Alfred had closed the well-read volumes Arthur was used to and had begun a new series...One Arthur hadn't cared to become acquainted with since cutting personal ties after the Revolution._

_...Maybe Alfred had grown up...a bit._

_Arthur realized a new approach was needed, and if Alfred wanted to play at acting like an adult, then he best be prepared to take it like one._

_His face draining of emotion, Arthur's expression became blank and his tone serious. Gone were the games and any attempts to trick Alfred into bending to his will...well...temporarily._

_"I was hoping to tempt you with the prospect of seeing a tank to get you to return with me to Paris."_

_"Thought so. But there aren't any tanks in Paris, are there."_

_"No, there are."_

_Alfred looked surprised. "Really?"_

_"Yes. But you're not allowed to touch them."_

_Alfred frowned. "That's low."_

_Arthur shrugged. "You're not qualified, remember."_

_Alfred scowled. "...Well, at least you're being honest."_

_"Indeed," he replied, sitting up a little straighter and placing his hands in his lap, ignoring the throb in his side, "and since we're being so honest, here's another one for you...Return with me to Paris or I will honestly send a special liaison to your Secretary of State, currently in London, and inform him of your less- than-cooperative behavior in seeing this war to victory."_

_As if struck by an electric current, Alfred's eyes widened and he almost fell off the trunk he'd been seated on. He gawked at Arthur before suddenly leaping to his feet, face flushed with red. "What the hell- Are you freakin' _serious_?" he demanded, so close to shouting the surface of the coffee-tar was dangerously close to rippling. "You're going to fucking lie and tattle on me to my own heads of state because I won't go to Paris?"_

_Arthur didn't look ruffled in the least, and his calm tone never wavered. "Lie? Oh no, we're being honest here, remember? You were supposed to be in Paris yesterday, no later than 0900 hours, if I remember correctly, and you weren't. I don't know how things are done in America anymore, and frankly I don't care, but in Europe if you set a date with the heads of three nations at war...you better get your bloody ass square and center or so help you. As far as I'm concerned, Alfred, your actions yesterday proved to me that you're not taking this very seriously."_

_Alfred looked furious. "Not taking this seriously? You fucking _BASTARD_! I'm here, aren't I? I came all the way across the damn Atlantic Ocean with my entire fucking army to save your pompous European asses and you want to tell me I'm not taking this seriously?" He was two seconds away from seriously knocking one of said Europeans into next Tuesday._

_Never flinching in the face of Alfred's rage, Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly and his tone grew firmer. "I am personally aware that Secretary of State Lansing is not your biggest fan. I met with him shortly after Secretary Bryan resigned after the 'Lusitania' incident; do you recall it?" Judging by the clenching of Alfred's fists and the veins pulsing in his neck and forehead, Alfred more than just recalled both the man and the incident. "Unlike you and Bryan, he's very interested in keeping the United States in this war and a very close ally to Great Britain. Considering your country has already pledged its support to the Allies, even as the associate power you are, any political implications of discord between you, your counterpart, and the commanders here would be both embarrassing and catastrophic. Besides making your people look bad, you could easily spread ill will and low morale among the troops which would be highly counterproductive in this war. Your lack of cooperation sabotaging Allied progress...? Lansing would jump at the chance to report bad news about you to Wilson and, trust me, his word would get there a lot faster than yours. How long do you think you'll last under quarantine at home?"_

_A cold chill raced down Alfred's spine. Arthur looked completely serious; the man would really do it. The realization that Arthur was really pulling the political-threat card on him somehow made him angrier than if the man had physically threatened him. Since becoming a fully autonomous nation, Alfred had grown to learn that the battle field of politics was a far more difficult and dangerous one than the field filled with tangible weapons and soldiers. The young man hated politics, so much so that he often left the underhanded backstabbing to his elected officials and took a more passive role unless absolutely necessary. Alfred loved interacting with his people, he loved being among them and helping them with their everyday lives as opposed to being trapped like a gilded pet in Washington. This caused many in his government to not take him seriously or think of him as a lackadaisical kid, a poor excuse as the representative of their country. Other than a few politicians within each administration, Alfred rarely got too close to any of them...His presidents he spoke with often, and his Secretary of State was about the second most common..._

_Lansing was one of his least favorite Secretaries of all time._

_During the infamous "Scone Incident" of the Spanish-American War, a man Alfred had practically watched grow up had been appointed Secretary of State. His name was John Hay, a man who had been a personal friend and secretary to Abraham Lincoln since his days before taking office. The same man had continued to idolize and hold true to Lincoln's philosophies throughout his political career, long after his presidential role model had been assassinated. Alfred hadn't been there the night Lincoln had been shot, but Hay had and had done all he could to help save their mutual boss and friend. Alfred had both liked and respected Hay very much, he was proud of the young man who had managed to work his way up the political ladder and into the position of Secretary of State under McKinley and then Roosevelt._

_Had it not been for the damn near saintly and loyal Hay, Alfred's disrespect for the Queen's scones likely would have caused a new war with England. As it was, it only earned him a new mark of scorn with his former mentor and many more demerits with his own people._

_Men came and went in the position after that, several times the turnover rate yielded multiple Secretaries in a single presidential term. However, when Bryan resigned because he foresaw America's coming involvement with the Great War, Lansing took over as Wilson's second Secretary of State and ambassador to Great Britain. Unlike with Hay, there was no love lost between Alfred and Lansing. Alfred didn't trust Lansing any farther than he could throw him, and his constant pushing for American intervention in the war had bothered him to no end; likewise, Lansing had confronted Alfred more than once and called him an irresponsible brat with no worldly sense. Alfred found it contradictory for a man who spent all his time in Great Britain organizing a war years before his country was even involved, to be criticizing his nation's avatar for trying to follow his president's orders and keep the peace at home._

_Arthur was right about one thing: Lansing wouldn't hesitate to put in a bad word about him to his boss...While Alfred was confident Wilson would more than likely give him the benefit of the doubt, there were other powerful men who would sooner side with the Secretary. Lansing wasn't very beloved by the president, but he was still an influential man in Washington. When the Secretary of State spoke people listened, and when he said things people wanted to hear, then said people pushed to make things happen. It wasn't as if they could personally do anything to him, he was Alfred F. Jones, the personification of the United States of fucking America, but regardless of how much his president liked him, those men could force the president to do something _about_ him for the sake of the country._

_Or in this case, foreign policy._

_Every time a new president had been sworn in since Washington, Alfred had taken an oath of absolute loyalty to his leader. Alfred swore to obey his president so long as that president upheld the Constitution and social contract he was sworn to defend. The deal ensured that both leader and avatar continued to operate with the best interests of the country in mind, fulfilling their duties to the States and one another on a playing field that had become more global over the years. Wilson had followed all the rules to the letter, and if he felt Alfred was out of line then he could recall him back home and place him under the equivalency of "human house arrest" in a heartbeat...and Alfred couldn't disobey. If the president felt it was best for the sake of the country, then as Commander in Chief he had the right to make that decision._

_It had only ever been done to him one time, during the Civil War, where he had needed to be physically restrained and quarantined for the safety of the president, his staff, and himself. Had that oath to Lincoln not been in place at the time, such imprisonment would have been impossible and who knew where the country would be today._

_Hearing Arthur's words, seeing the look on his face...Alfred knew that Arthur knew that. How the hell did he know that? How could he possibly know that!_

_No one beyond those on a need to know basis in Washington knew that!_

_"You son of a bitch," Alfred growled out through clenched teeth, taking a menacing step towards his former colonizer and imagining his blood on his hands. "Pershing can testify that it's absolute bullshit."_

_"Perhaps. But could he do it in time before the order was sent for you to return to America while your commanders and troops remained here?" That made Alfred falter a step, coming to a halt no more than a foot from the cot where Arthur sat unmoved. "I don't need you here personally to fight this war, Alfred, but I know how involved you like to be on the battlefield when your country's in the fray. You set down a lot of rules before coming into this war: fighting under your own flag, your own commanders, and being an autonomous ally just to name a few...but make no mistake, Alfred," Arthur continued in a low hiss, eyes narrowing and a glimmer of his own anger peeking through for the first time. "You will learn to cooperate, or so help me, I will ensure to make your life a living hell."_

_He would not lose this war because of Alfred's grandstanding or rebellious behavior. Regardless of how it would weaken the subconscious morale of the Americans not to have their country's avatar on the field with them, he would sooner not have Alfred here making poor decisions than locked up in Washington back in the States._

_Freedom meant everything to the boy, take that away and one has all but killed him._

_They both knew that, which is why Arthur was not surprised when a fist nearly collided with the side of his face._

_Alfred had stepped in and thrown a hard right cross, forcing Arthur to fall back on the cot, head hitting the canvas of the tent as he looked up at his attacker. Not missing a beat, the Englishman ignored the pain in his head and abdominal muscles as he drew his legs up, planting his still boot-clad heels hard into the American's stomach and shoved him back. The hit briefly knocked the wind out of Alfred's body, but he regained his footing after losing ground and immediately glared at the target of his rage._

_Arthur, knowing staying on the cot was a poor strategic choice, quickly rolled off the mattress and landed towards the foot of the bed. The blond drew himself up to his full height in a fluid motion, fists clenched at his sides and only slightly raised in case he needed a fast defense. However, the Brit looked otherwise unfazed. Alfred, on the other hand, looked ready to charge the Briton and tear his limbs off._

_"Let's think about this, shall we?" Arthur began, his tone returning to being calm and seemingly unperturbed by the sudden turn of events. Alfred didn't look mollified by it in the least. "Knowing the consequences of not returning with me to Paris, and stating that Pershing is your possible saving grace, you've sent for a subordinate of Pershing's to drive here to collect me and return with me, alone, to headquarters. Per your words, he should be arriving 'within the hour', now likely to be any moment. Assuming I am the only British soldier being 'shipped out' in this camp, he'll know to come directly here, and what do you think he will see?"_

_"Me 'shipping out' your sorry ass just like I fucking said, you bastard!" Alfred shouted, fists raised and eyes narrowed into near slits. He was going to send Arthur back in a damn body bag._

_Arthur...was smiling. "Exactly."_

_The fact that the Englishman looked way too satisfied with this was making alarm bells go off in Alfred's head. Arthur was playing a new game now...what was it? What was the angle? What the hell was he getting at? God damn it! Too many God damn, backstabbing, politics!_

_"What the fuck are you on about now?" Alfred demanded._

_Arthur was really grinning now and even let a low chuckle escape. The sound was making Alfred increasingly uncomfortable. "Don't credit me with the idea, Alfred, since it was all your own," he said and with his left hand he gestured towards the bandages on his side. Alfred's eyes followed the movement in confusion, then realization struck him and his face paled. "Wouldn't want anyone thinking the 'big bad Americans' beat me up, right? Even you understand the political significance of that...and since you're in charge here...well, it's one of the beauties about being the commanding officer, isn't it? You take all the blame."_

_Alfred's arms dropped a bit._

_"Aren't you thrilled you convinced Pershing to leave you here in charge?"_

_He couldn't believe it. The man was an absolute rattle-snake. Arthur hadn't said it directly, but somehow he knew that while Alfred was counting on Pershing being an honorable man saving him from Arthur's lies, regardless of how rocky their relationship was right now- if his aide saw him beating the crap out of England's avatar, coupled with the mess-tent brawl, and Arthur's words on top of it...there would be nothing to convince him otherwise that sending him back wouldn't be in America's best interests._

_By God...when the hell did the man have the time to think all of this up?_

_It was another moment of tense silence for Alfred, who was shaking slightly and trying to swallow the implications of what had just happened, but for Arthur it was a moment of triumph. He had won and he knew it, the look of wonder, fear, and hate on Alfred's face was enough to tell him that._

_...This was war, personal feelings could not be allowed to interfere, and with Alfred in the equation that tended to happen. Arthur lost America in the Revolution because he let his emotions control him, but this was the Great War and he had to take a stand._

_This was Europe. Britain's Europe. _His_ Europe. Here, he was master-not Alfred-and he was going to make that very clear before Americans stormed the battlefields of France in the coming months._

_The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence and rapid knocking on one of the tent posts outside alerted the occupants before someone called out for Commander Jones._

_Alfred flinched; Arthur sneered._

_"Now or never, Alfred," Arthur said in a low voice. "Shall I invite him in?"_

_The American glared daggers at the Englishman before the human outside knocked again and repeated his superior's name._

_Finally, still shaking with rage, Alfred yanked his hands down to his sides and stood, turning to the tent's entrance and trying not to scream, "Stand by, we're coming!" He then turned his head and growled to Arthur, expression promising revenge as his color returned, "Both of us."_

_Arthur suppressed his shudder, and this time had to force his smile._

* * *

Pershing's aide had brought with him a British uniform for Arthur when he came to return him to Paris. Apparently, when Alfred had arranged the transport, he had been thoughtful enough to ask for fresh clothes to replace the blood-soaked ones from the day before. Had he and Alfred still been on speaking terms, Arthur would have thanked him upon delivery...as it was, Alfred threatened death every time he so much as stood in the Englishman's presence. But that didn't matter now...he was here in Paris and fulfilling his responsibility, so the Brit could take it.

Arthur winced as he bent down to tie his combat boots, his side screaming in protest as both skin and muscle pulled against the stitches when he moved. Undeterred, Arthur finished the last of the knots before sitting back up, taking a deep and shuddering breath as his eyes slid closed and he sat still for a moment. He was so tired...but so grateful to be back in his combat-ready uniform. The uniform he'd worn on the ride back to Paris had been another officer's uniform, one which he gratefully accepted (considering the then-present alternatives), but quickly changed out of the moment he had been given permission by Sir Haig.

Upon entering the temporary Allied headquarters in Paris, Arthur, a well known figure, had been greeted respectfully and efforts to alert the commanders made immediately. Alfred, however, had been greeted with a less than enthusiastic, albeit curious reception by both staff and by the Allied commanders when they arrived. It was clear Alfred was just as pleased to be there as they were, but Arthur was glad the lad held his tongue and was taking it with all the professionalism he could muster. In all honesty, he even surprised Arthur a bit; even better was the look on Francis's absolutely astounded face upon beholding the young Alfred garbed in full Army regalia and snapped at attention. He was taken into a private meeting to be briefed on all that had been discussed during his...absence, while Arthur informed Sir Haig that he was well and was given leave to rest.

While the man had alluded to needing to speak with Arthur once they were finished with Alfred, the Empire's avatar agreed with little more acknowledgement than a nod and retired to his room. The first order of business had been to get out of the stiff officer's uniform, wash up, change his bandages (though they hadn't been too bad), and change into his fatigues. Finally, Arthur allowed himself to slump down on top of the blankets on the bed, his head on the pillows and eyes closed, just wishing for sleep.

He was nearly there before a swift knock at the door and a flabbergasted Francis barged in, disrupting everything.

"...I'm still armed, you know," Arthur muttered, still fully clothed and refused to open his eyes and acknowledge the Frenchman.

"And you know where you can shove it, _Angleterre_," Francis retorted, marching over to the bed and stopping right next to it, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed down at the falsely sleeping Englishman. "What the hell did you do to Alfred?"

Arthur didn't immediately respond, but he was irritated with the Frenchman's tone. As if Francis gave a damn about Alfred now any more than he did during the American Revolution. Francis really was a pain in the ass. "Something clearly neither you nor his own commanding officer could do. Now just be grateful he's here, shut the hell up, and go away."

Francis growled, "I mean it, Arthur. _Le garçon_ looks ready to commit _meurtre_, and I know for a fact that _le Général_ gave up trying to get Alfred here shortly after the summons was given. If I have to be one of the ones to tell him he's committing suicide, then I want to know what the hell this is all about!"

Though Arthur's jaw was locking in irritation, he didn't have the patience or the will power to inquire as to what the man was on about. The frog was acting like he had personally had a hand in delivering Alfred to his executioners, which was preposterous because they were just in bloody Paris!

"Relax, Francis, you're not doing anything for my headache. I believe General Pershing is working on keeping Alfred with his own men and they won't be field ready for months...so take the thong out of your ass and bugger off," Arthur replied indifferently, ignoring the offended sound effects of the Frenchman. "I'm trying to sleep..."

"_A l'enfer avec cela_!" Francis cried, indignation thick in his voice as he slammed both hands down on the mattress and jostled a now very pissed off Arthur, who was in the process of sitting up and preparing to deck a certain frog. "You are completely in the dark on this, _Angleterre_, if that's what you think. Do you have any idea what the _Commandants_ have decided for you and your little _Amérique_?"

Arthur had one fist drawn back before Francis finished, the Englishman stopping himself from completing any violent actions as the two nations stared at each other for a moment. Francis's eyes were narrowed and angry, Arthur was angry as well, but there was an apprehensive concern in the Englishman's features.

"...What are you talking about?"

Francis gave a sigh of exasperation and his fists gripped the coverlet harder. "They're sending you both to the Hindenberg. They want you to assassinate _Allemagne_."

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Welcome back, everyone! I hope you've enjoyed the new chapter. I'm really happy to have managed this before diving into my next round of crazy night shifts (4 in a row, AHHH!) and classes begin again next week. The goal of this chapter was to get back to the war at hand after Alfred and Arthur had some time to get reacquainted. :) This was also the chance to let everyone, Alfred especially, know just how serious Arthur is about victory in this war. He's not pulling punches, he's not taking prisoners, and he wants those who he feels are to blame for the past three years to suffer. The epic two sides of Arthur: a powerful ally, or your worst possible enemy. Never question my love of England/Arthur, ALL POSSIBLE LOVE TO HIM...even in his ass hole moments. XD

Thank you J-Chan/Oneechan/Lady Hedervary, for once again being my wonderful Beta editor! I LOVE YOU! XD

ON TO THE NOTES! (Oh come one, you all knew this was inevitable):

1.) During WWI, one, if not the, greatest contribution of the U.S. to the Allies were the large amounts of funds and supplies they brought into the war. By the last year of the war, the U.S. had more troops spread out between France and Italy than Britain and its Commonwealths (though, in fairness, the Allies had sustained heavy, heavy casualties before America's entrance into the fight, and unlike America that was adding to its forces monthly, the other Allies had all but run out of troop reserves to pull from). America's forces swelled beyond 2 million by 1918, and while we haven't gotten to that point yet in the fic, the beginnings of the build up has been alloted to in Alfred's chat with Arthur prior to...uh, Arthur going "rawr" on him. XD

1.5.) The "b_astards who had sooner thrown the damn tea into the harbor before they drank it_" comment by Arthur was a reference to the infamous Boston Tea Party (pretty epic protest just before the start of the American Revolution). XD Its worth looking up. England was PISSED.

2.) TABASCO SAUCE! Yes, its important enough to get its own edition into the notes. XD Tabasco sauce has been around in America since the late 1860s, and started in Louisiana. For those of you who don't know, Tabasco Sauce is really spicy hot sauce that is very popular in the south and south-western portions of the United States, though its globally distributed these days. In modern day American military rations, there's a small bottle of Tabasco Sauce with every package...the reason? XD So you won't have to taste the crap you're eating, just the fiery kick of peppers, peppers, and more peppers. I thought it would be fitting for Alfred to have a bottle of his own for kicks (also hinting at his epic "cowboy roots"), even though Tabasco Sauce wasn't really standard issue until wars like Korea and Vietnam. :) Just some fun facts!

3.) Historical Characters: General Pershing was the General of the Armies of the U.S. forces in Europe, in the fic he's basically Alfred's boss away from his boss XD. Sir Haig is Field Marshal Douglas Haig, the equivalence of Pershing for Arthur and his British Expeditionary Forces. Continuing, John Hay was the personal friend and secretary to Abraham Lincoln (Lincoln, of who, was the 16th president of the United States, the Commander in Chief and leader of the Union during the Civil War, and the first U.S. president to have even been assassinated in office). Hay served a long political career beginning in his early twenties and was a devoted follower of president Lincoln, was a long standing man of peace, and one of the most effective and influential Secretaries of State in United States History. I tailored his relationship with Alfred to have been positive, mostly because I imagine (for minus the insanity and horrors of the Civil War) Alfred's relationship with Lincoln would have been positive. Hay was the Secretary of State during the Spanish-American War, and he would have been present for the "Great Scone Incident"...XD which also fits into character considering Hay had a well-known love of Great Britain and a desire to keep peaceful ties strong with the Empire. Moving on, Secretary Bryan was Secretary of State until the 'Lusitania' (an ocean liner sailing under a flag of neutrality sunk by a German U-Boat, killing civilian British and American passengers), after which he resigned because he knew it would eventually bring about the end of American neutrality. Secretary of State Robert Lansing took over after that, a man who originally fought fiercely for neutrality, then switched his position and was a strong advocate for joining Britain in the war. There was a lot of tension at the time surrounding this man, and in the year following the war he tried to have president Wilson step down after a series of illnesses and a stroke, which many saw as him trying to usurp the head of state. This made his image even worse, and more brazen and independent acts drove president Wilson to force Lansing to resign his position. Since I imaged Wilson, who was considered to be one of the greatest presidents in American history, to have been someone Alfred was comfortable with swearing allegiance to, I imagined he wouldn't have gotten along with Lansing (not many did). This worked perfectly for Arthur's purposes...much to the horror of Alfred.

4.) The Mark I, yep, that's the first modern tank in world history, and a British invention. :) The Mark IIs came out the month before the arrival of the Americans in the war, and a third model entered before the end of the war. XD Yay for tanks!

5.) Time to explain the oath Alfred is talking about and Arthur is holding over his head. In the U.S., it is expected of every citizen to respect the office of the presidency and obey the social contract/laws on both the State and Federal levels (whether that happens all the time...well, there's a reason our crime rate is so high). In the military, this is taken a step further by all members having to swear and oath to the office, the president himself, the social contract AND the country. Now, in regards to Alfred (and I see this as a unique thing for Alfred/America, so please don't think I hold/see any other country having to take/be held to such oaths), with each new president his people elect, he swears an oath of loyalty that affirms the new president as his boss...but it also holds his boss to his responsibility of upholding and defending the Constitution and social contract with dire consequences if he (or she) doesn't. In America, presidents who betray the American people, the office, and/or the country are subject to impeachment (which, in frank terms, is official government and criminal actions against those in office, usually resulting in ousting). Only two _presidents_ in U.S. history have ever been brought up through the process of impeachment: Andrew Johnson and Bill Clinton. In both cases the process only made it to the trial portion and did not result in either president being removed from office (but it was close). Another president, Richard Nixon, resigned from office before formal charges could be brought against him and certain impeachment with the result of ousting occurred. What does this mean for Alfred? Alfred is a representation of his country (duh) but more importantly he's a representation of his people (which I really like to push). So Alfred's oath is similar to the country promising to back its president so long as said president holds up their end of the bargain (a mutual understanding), though Alfred concedes ultimate authority to his president and the title of boss. How does this work in reverse? Kind of like this...Alfred is still the personification of the people and his country, but he's also Alfred. Just like president's can do things detrimental to the country and face consequences, Alfred's more human side is also prone to the same. If his personal actions are seen as harmful for America in the international community, then this newly globalized political world adds pressure for Alfred's bosses to take a more active role in reigning him in (I allot that during the Civil War this had to be done due to domestic reasons, so that is possible too). Considering how inflamed tensions are during this time period, all countries are kind of on hot footing, and America really can't afford to let things get any worse than they already are. XD I'd like to explain this better later, but my brain is fried, its late, and I'm really tiiiiired~

6.) Its true, when America entered WWI there were a LOT of conditions for its cooperation. For starters, the United States stated from the get-go that it would only fight under its own flag, its own commanders, and there would be as little mingling with the other Allied troops as possible. All joint efforts were to be agreed on well ahead of time between Allied and American commanders, and officially America was to be known as an ASSOCIATE Allied power and not really an official member like Britain and France. This is one of the reasons we were not major contenders in the signing of the Treaty of Versailles (Basically, our president Wilson gave his famous "14 Points" at the Paris Peace Conference and then gave into his peoples' desire to be done with Europe and withdraw from the continent). In fact, America was one of the only countries that fought against Germany that still allowed trade afterward, sent aid, and was greatly frowned upon for doing so. But, there ya go. Quickly note about the Treaty and the reparations ordered by Britain and France...XP America got pissed at the Allies saying the terms of both were way too harsh and demanded renegotiations, but given that none of the countries were budging on the issue, America gave up trying to force renegotiating the Treaty and went into near complete isolationism until World War II. Yulp. America totally gave up on foreign policy and alliances for a looong, loooooong time.

*panting* Dear God...I think this is the longest chapter yet, and certainly the longest list of notes and I'm still sure I could have done more. Please forgive my crappy French, my crappier timing, and forgive me that I'm about to pass out.

*salutes* 'Night, all! THANK YOU AGAIN TO ALL OF YOU WHO REVIEWED, FAVED, ADDED TO ALERTS, AND READ! YOU'RE ALL SO WONDERFUL!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Six Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter VI

_"Let me tell you the story of Rome..."_

Arthur's footsteps were rapid and clipped. He marched down the marble halls of the prominent French hotel- turned Allied headquarters- without acknowledging the startled faces he passed by.

* * *

_He paled and couldn't find his voice for a moment, then suddenly grabbed the Frenchman by his lapels and yanked him inches from his face. "They what?"_

_Francis grunted in surprise at the move, but immediately glared at his longtime rival and grabbed the hands holding him. Much to the Frenchman's distress, Arthur's grip was firm. "I spoke it in as much English as I can tolerate. What part of it didn't you understand?" Francis shot back indigently, contemplating nailing Arthur in his injured side if the man got too aggressive._

_The Frenchman knew about the Englishman's wounds from Somme; thinking about them caused him a mixture of begrudging sympathy and deep-seeded guilt, but he would do what he had to in order to subdue Arthur if necessary. France was in no condition to take any more blows of any kind._

_Arthur would have given Francis a scowl had he not been so consumed by a sudden and intense sense of urgency. He had to find the commanders and beat some bloody sense into them, but more importantly he had to find Alfred. _

_Francis saw every thought that played out on Arthur's face as though he were watching every action in his mind. Arthur, who normally wore a mask to guard from any emotional betrayal, was practically announcing he was about to do something uncharacteristically stupid._

"_Where are they?" Arthur growled, tightening his hold._

_

* * *

_

The conference room they had previously occupied for the meeting before he departed for the American camp had been vacant; in fact all of the conference rooms in that entire wing had been empty. He continued his search after interrogating two French soldiers on the floor's main hall, neither of whom had been any help, and Arthur was pretty sure one of them had voided his trousers by the time he had left them.

While Arthur would have loved nothing more than to have stayed and beat the location out of Francis, the Frenchman had been stubborn in refusing to come clean about the information- even going so far as to nearly land a serious blow to his freshly stitched left side. Had Arthur not become so hyperaware of the injury since Alfred had tended to it, he wouldn't have avoided the hit and would have been crippled long enough for Francis to have detained him properly. As it was...

It was safe to say Francis wasn't waking up anytime soon.

It came down to a civilian attendant informing him that he had delivered a telegram to General Pershing on the fifth floor's south wing not more than ten minutes ago. Armed with this information, Arthur double-timed his pace up the grand staircase and through the halls to the service stairs. The ascension was murder on his body, but he managed to emerge in the building's south end and follow the directions given to him by the attendant. Given how much trouble it had been to get here, he half-expected the rather ordinary oak doors to be locked out of spite; thankfully, the knobs turned with ease and Arthur pulled them apart as he made his way in.

He was nearly out of breath; only through sheer force of will was he still standing rather than making his way to the nearest chair. The room was mostly dark, lit only by a single overhead fluorescent and the glare from a projection screen. There was a long conference table in the center lined by an even number of chairs, though currently one was pulled out and near the narrow room's far wall.

Alfred was hunched over in it, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and breaths shuddered and slow. His General Pershing was there, stalwart in standing before Alfred's huddled mass as though he could endow the man with courage just by remaining in his presence. Arthur's own commander, Field Marshall Haig, wasn't far from him while the French commander sat at the conference table looking both contemplative and disheartened.

Now, however, all eyes - safe for Alfred's - were on him, and all but Field Marshall Haig's looked guarded and unfriendly.

Alfred hadn't moved, he didn't seem to notice.

Arthur tried to keep his appearance calm and respectable, but he was failing considering he was still short of breath, sweating, and looking between Alfred and the commanders with growing concern.

Pershing turned to Haig and said something in a hushed tone that passed between them; the French commander, Joffre, only remained silent and appraised Arthur with the same expression he'd had while looking at Alfred earlier. Growing ever more uncomfortable, Arthur took a step forward and immediately the atmosphere changed.

Alfred suddenly tensed, as if metaphysically aware of his counterpart's presence, and the two men above him paused and stared down at the blond with extreme wariness.

Arthur could tell how this meeting had gone just by this moment alone.

Without a word, Haig stepped away from Pershing and Alfred, rounding the Americans and avoiding the Frenchman altogether as he approached Arthur with a hardened expression of melancholy. He indicated with a gesture that they needed to step outside and speak alone. Arthur hesitated, looking back at Alfred whose tension had not faded, but who seemed to have been kept calm by whatever the rigid Pershing was saying to him. A wave of sadness overcame Arthur before he returned Haig's silent request with a new mask and a nod. The pair retreated from the room and into the hall, well out of hearing distance.

With the doors behind them closed, silence stretched between them as the human commander quietly contemplated how best to proceed; Arthur merely let what he saw and deduced in that room sink in before breaking the silence.

"...Alfred wasn't receptive to the plan." It wasn't a question.

The human turned and looked at Arthur, eyeing the avatar of his Majesty's Empire before sighing and lowering his gaze a fraction. "He did not know your kind could die. He apparently does not know a lot about the physical workings of the national avatars."

Arthur closed his eyes and he took a deep breath in through his nose, trying to quell the terrible knotting in his stomach. Of course Alfred didn't know...how could he? The one who had been supposed to teach him had never done it. At the time it hadn't seemed so important; he had intentionally deluded himself into believing that he would be there to take care of everything forever; an eternal guardian who watched over and protected even if it was from afar. The Empire had given America so much freedom, so much leeway to get stronger and grow with the hopes that it would be its greatest masterpiece in the New World. But for him, personally, it meant having Alfred as his refuge away from Europe forever...

What a fool he had been then, what a mistake it had been to be so optimistic...now they were all paying for it - Alfred most of all.

"I need to talk to him," Arthur said after a while.

Haig frowned, but seemed to understand the inevitable. With the way Alfred had been during the meeting, it was hard to believe he was one of Arthur's kind. Neither he nor Joffre had ever met a national avatar like Alfred; even more unbelievable had been the knowledge that the boy had been raised by his own nation. "Perhaps it would be best to give him some time to calm down. He was rather...outspoken and passionate at the meeting."

Arthur quirked a tired smile. "I don't doubt that..." His expression slowly melted and he simply looked exhausted, as if the very thought of the coming encounter had drained the last of him. "It's best to get this over with as soon as possible. I...highly doubt what happened with Alfred changed your minds, but does this make you reconsider your plan?" He more than half hoped it did.

Killing another nation was very serious, and while completely justified in war (within reason), it was normally a method of last resort. That Germany had taken England's own life at Somme had been a message that the German Empire was very serious about their conquest, there would be no prisoners, and they would do whatever it took to win. While they had upped the ante first, if the Allies had to see the Central hand...Arthur would have preferred to do it alone, or at least with someone more experienced than Alfred.

Haig seemed to understand Arthur's silent protest to the operation, and the human finally returned his hard eyes to Arthur, meeting him with a stiff posture. "We've received intelligence reports that the Germans are preparing a massive offensive sometime in the coming months. While it could be anytime after Christmas, we believe they will take advantage of Russia's inevitable withdrawal and send reinforcements this way. There have already been slow but steady increases in troop and supply support filtering in from Germany and captured areas of Belgium. From what we've gathered, they'll have more manpower than even the Americans can't help us counter by the spring."

Arthur stared back at his commander with a pallid complexion, but he managed to keep his composure intact. The stress in his eyes was very evident, reflecting that his thoughts were as grim as his commander's. He had heard things were taking a turn for the worst; hell he had been at the damn meeting earlier and knew it was bad...but this?

The last he had heard from the original third superpower of their pact: successes had been few and far between, casualties had been catastrophic, and the larger Russian forces were being crushed by the Austro-Hungarian and German alliance. There had been mass riots among the Russian armies: famine, disease, the weather, and lack of both basic and military supplies had crippled their ally in the east to the point of internal collapse. To make matters worse, talk of civil war brewing in the massive country was making Russian commitment shaky at best. How could Russia fight to push west when it was constantly looking over its shoulder to the unrest threatening to tear it apart at home? The other Allies wanted to send help, but they were barely holding on in France as it stood...Russia...was on its own.

He knew Russia was being forced to consider withdrawing, but upon hearing it with the finality Haig presented, he couldn't help the shiver running down his spine.

Germany was bad enough; soon they would have the full force of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and their allies upon them. A combined offensive like that would be the end of it.

"We need to act, Arthur," Haig said, using Arthur's human first name as he brought the nation back to attention. "Your death at Somme proved how devastating an avatar's death could be to a nation at war. We need to see about Germany's end before this offensive is amassed..." Haig paused and for a brief moment there was a slight softness to his tone he rarely held. Arthur seemed stricken from it. "I know you're still not recovered from what happened last year, which is why I made the decision not to have you heading this mission. However, we all agreed that to not have you detailed to it would be a mistake. There is no one else of your standing who is both familiar with the landscape and with the enemy. Monsieur Bonnefoy is practically on death's door every other day, and to be quite frank I wouldn't trust him to see this through to the end. I know you have experience in this matter, and given the stronger ties between our country and America, we thought this was the best partnership for a successful mission."

However true the majority of Field Marshall Haig's words were, Arthur was quite adept at reading between the lines. Yes, he was the most experienced of his kind who could undertake this operation, given he had drawn the last breaths of nations left and right in his prime, but that wasn't why the commanders had picked him. No one could navigate a battlefield like he could, not even Francis who hadn't lived in the trenches every day as he had. While others like Francis occasionally withdrew from combat to attend to matters of their state, Arthur only left the battlefield when dead or forcibly ordered to. One would be hard-pressed to question Arthur's commitment to his men and the war...another reason they could have picked him over the other nations here.

But Arthur knew the real reason. Arthur was Alfred's first babysitter, and it seemed they were charging him to be so again.

To be fair, Haig was right that he was in no physical condition to take on Germany. However, what he hadn't added was that Alfred _was_. He could see it clear as day; they were making Arthur responsible for getting Alfred to Germany and have the lad take him out. In all honesty, it was a plan of practical brilliance to combine Arthur's honed survival and tactical skills with Alfred's fresh stamina, vitality, and impressive strength. This war had been a long one for both sides, meaning that though the Allies were in a weakened state, Germany was as well...while Alfred? He and the United States were untouched by it all, and would, by all logical means, be best able to survive a direct encounter and deliver a killing blow.

There was just one problem with that theory...

Alfred and his men were about as untested in modern warfare as it got. They were charging Arthur with leading Alfred and thousands more to their deaths.

"With all due respect, sir..." Arthur began, trying to keep himself in check as he spoke. He wasn't going to lose it as Alfred had. "I can see both sides of this plan well enough, and were the circumstances a bit different I would have no problems supporting it." He wouldn't hesitate in the slightest to return Germany's fatal bullet in kind. "However, as things stand now, my counterpart is not even close to being ready to undertake such a task. He would be more of a detriment to this kind of assignment than if-"

With a swiftly risen hand cutting him off, Arthur stopped and Haig gave him a hard look. It was rare that anyone, let alone a human, had the constitution to stare down Arthur Kirkland, personification of the British Empire, and do so with the same air of authority the immortal himself commanded. The old man looked grim, tired, and traces of strong displeasure shown in his face. Gone was any previous softness and all that remained was the commander of the British Expeditionary Forces; the man respected and feared the world over by subordinates and enemies alike.

"This is not up for debate, Lord Kirkland. Where the Empire is concerned, my word is law here in France and right now I've seen the bodies, I see the numbers, and I foresee a very bleak future if something drastic is not done to change the tides of this war. The decision has been made and there is no going back," He said with the same level of finality he had spoken with before, forcing Arthur to stiffen and swallow his words. "My faith in the Empire has never wavered, therefore I will not accept any talk of failure, period. If you have suggestions towards the success of this mission then I am all ears, elsewise, Lord Kirkland, and with all due respect...about face and get to turning that boy into a soldier."

Eyes locked, both bearing rigid postures and a very thick silence settling between them, the two engaged in a stare off that made Arthur's heckles rise. Arthur felt his desire to protest remaining a strong and living thing inside of him, but he kept it caged despite how it clawed at him for freedom. Regardless of the fiery anger burning within, remembering a time when he listened to no one not wearing a crown, he could not deny that things had changed so drastically since his glory days. In this age where practicality won out over pride, knowing that his true master had indeed left all decisions about this war to the human before him...there was nothing he could do. Knowing that any argument was futile, the nation gave his commanding officer a clipped salute and turned on heel, heading towards the other inevitability of his ever-declining life...Alfred.

"Arthur."

Again he was arrested by that voice, whether of his own recognizance or because he had been charged by his monarch to obey his surrogate in the field, he didn't know. He would have preferred it to be the former, since being the latter reminded him his will was becoming more invalid.

"We humans live short lives. When we have children, we have but one chance to raise them right and teach them all we can about surviving in this cruel world. You nations live for lifetimes..." Haig began, addressing Arthur's back as the nation had not turned around. "You are fortunate to have indeterminate chances to make things right."

Arthur said nothing for a while. He had met Sir Haig's two young daughters, the oldest of whom would have just turned ten this year. How old had Alfred been the first time he had left him to go off to war? The way nations aged was vastly different from humans...but Arthur still remembered Alfred crying and holding his baptismal robe, begging him not to go. He had been with him for decades before he left the first time...he had still been very small and very young.

Alfred always seemed to forgive him the moment he came back, but leaving had always been hard. Now...Alfred seemed to want nothing more than to be rid of him forever.

Arthur continued down the hall without a word and made his way back to the conference room. He could hear Field Marshall Haig's boot steps walking in the opposite direction and couldn't be more grateful for it.

He didn't bother knocking. Instead he calmly opened the conference room doors and entered. His blank expression was met with no one left in the room but the one he needed to see, and this time Alfred was composed as well. Hard blue eyes met him from where he stood beside the table, an assortment of folders and papers strewn over the surface as though he'd been looking through them before Arthur's arrival. Neither the French nor American commander was present, and the Englishman drew in a discrete breath and readied himself for dealing with Alfred alone.

He'd done it for hundreds of years prior to the Revolution, but now he felt as though he was dealing with a complete stranger.

It was the stranger who spoke first.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and for once you're going to give me nothing but absolute honesty," he began with a hard tone, edging on a growl. Whatever Pershing had said was keeping him from getting violent, but they both knew Alfred never kept to orders long.

Arthur didn't say anything for a moment, then nodded. That didn't seem to satisfy Alfred, who turned his scowl into a full on glare. Arthur took another breath and tried to remain calm before answering, "Very well. You have my word."

The American snorted, making clear just what he thought of Arthur's word, but seemed to take it as a sign to move on. "Did you know about the plan to assassinate Germany when you came to drag me back to Paris?"

That one was easy enough, and Arthur tiredly shook his head. "No."

"When did you find out, and from whom?"

"Francis interrupted me as I was recuperating in my room. He told me and that's what made me come here." He would have offered for Alfred to validate his words with Francis, but he doubted the Frenchman was even conscious yet.

Alfred continued to scrutinize Arthur before seeming to accept this and moved on. "Do you agree that killing Germany is our best option?"

Arthur sighed again and looked away. "What I think is irrelevant, Alfred. Logistically speaking, this is a sure way to-"

"IT WAS A YES OR NO QUESTION!" Alfred suddenly screamed, slamming his fist down onto the table hard enough to send papers flying. The sharp sound of splintering wood seemed to echo as Arthur stiffened and locked onto the crater beneath Alfred's fist.

Alfred's teeth were clenched; he seemed like he hadn't meant to cause that much damage, but there was no time to regret it as he glared at Arthur. The Englishman was starting to see just how little control Alfred seemed to have over that incredible strength of his.

That was dangerous.

"...Yes. I do."

Alfred didn't seem to like that answer, "You say that so easily. Is it really so customary for nations to be killing each other in such a businesslike manner?"

Now it was Arthur's turn to reign in his retort as his eyes met Alfred's again. "No. Killing another nation isn't something taken lightly, but it does happen, especially in war when it's necessary. There is a reason many nations choose not to personally fight in wars their countries are engaged in; the risk of death isn't something taken lightly, even among us. Death almost always ensures who will be the victor in a conflict."

"So, you'll just take his life to win? Is that it?" Alfred demanded.

Green eyes narrowed, and Arthur's patience was beginning to wear thin. "Without hesitation, yes, I would just as willingly put a bullet in his head to spare any more of my troops in this God-damn affair. In war, he's just another enemy to me. Nothing more, nothing less."

This information did not sit well with Alfred at all; Arthur could see his fists and eyes tightening as he tried to keep eye contact while taking his hand from the hole in the table. He would have looked quite menacing if Arthur hadn't noticed his shoulders shaking...and he knew it was from fear just as much as anger.

Suddenly, a cynical smirk crossed Alfred's features, "He's not too small to shoot, is he?"

The Englishman's eyes widened a fraction at that, his heart stopping cold before he swallowed the rising bile in his throat and clenched his jaw and hands. He wouldn't give Alfred the satisfaction of using_ that _against him. How ironic that the one who harped about letting go of the past and living for the day would sink low enough to bring up something he'd said more than one-hundred and thirty years ago.

Arthur had had enough.

"Come off your high horse, Alfred. Your hands are stained and so is your damn conscious, so don't think to free yourself of this responsibility by making me the villain," he retorted, letting Alfred see his anger for the first time since they reunited at the American base camp. "If you had known killing me would have brought a swift end to your Revolution, wouldn't you have done it? To spare your beloved patriots from my British wrath, would you have not put a musket to my head and pulled the trigger? How about your brother? If you had known killing him would have gotten my _absolute _attention and likely gained you some of Canada's lands, would you have done it?"

Alfred seemed to pale and was taken aback by the streaming accusations. He was losing control of the situation, but he couldn't get a word in as Arthur barreled on.

"Mexico, Spain, even the Philippines! If you had known killing their national avatars would have brought you assured victory without costing more time, lives, and resources, do you think the action would not have sounded like a better alternative to dragging out conflict through years of war?" Arthur's voice had nearly risen to shouting, but now dropped to a low hiss. "Tell me, Alfred: now that you know that killing one of us changes the tides of a war, would you kill me now and let the Central Powers win so you could go home and return to your isolationist life?"

If Alfred's face could have gotten any whiter he would have rivaled the sheets of paper scattered over the table and the floor.

Arthur could see what was playing out in Alfred's head. He could see him reliving each war he'd ever been in and contemplating how different things would have been if only he had taken the initiative he was being forced to take now. Had Alfred killed Arthur during the war, America would have won its independence that much faster and have been seen with more respect in the international community. Any nation that had been in conflict with England knew how powerful an opponent he could be, how ruthlessly he fought and how difficult he was to harm...let alone kill. If he had committed fratricide during 1812, America would likely have even more territory than it did now and might have prevented the invasion of Washington D.C. during which the White House was burned.

The event had caused Alfred unimaginable pain when the British set fire to his nation's heart. He could have prevented that suffering if he had just killed the only two people on the planet he considered family.

The bloody war with Mexico to complete America's "Manifest Destiny" would have been swift and the tragedy of The Alamo could have been avoided. The Spanish-American war hadn't been as long and bloody as the wars with Britain and Mexico, but American lives had still been lost. America might never have been introduced to the yellow-fever and other terrible diseases from the prolonged exposure in the southern islands; they would have also been spared the illnesses and casualties suffered in the Pacific.

Alfred had always thought he had done everything he could, exhausting all options in every battle he had ever fought...Learning this proved him wrong.

Arthur watched as Alfred bit his lower lip, a terrible tick he had never grown out of that made him look incredibly young despite his military uniform. He was lost in thought and Arthur would have happily left him there if not for their pressing time limit. The offensive was set to come in the late winter or early spring and there was a lot to be done before then. He needed Alfred's head on his shoulders and not in the past.

"If you're quite through, we can discuss the matter at-"

"I couldn't do it."

Arthur paused. "...I beg your pardon?"

Alfred looked defeated and finally lifted his now-softened blue eyes to Arthur, catching the Brit off guard with an expression of pure misery. "I couldn't do it...Even if it had brought me swifter victory, I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have killed any of you..."

Arthur paused, taking that in, then frowned. "You would have condemned your people to die because of your conscience?" He inquired with mock patronization. Alfred was far from a coward, but the boy had terribly innocent morals even after so many wars. Why else had he tried so long for peace and neutrality before giving in to the inevitable? Arthur had prided that innocence once, but now it was beyond frustrating and detrimental.

Alfred flinched at that, but eventually he lowered his head and once again looked so terribly young. "As a nation...yes, I...I could have possibly conceived doing it, but as me I would never have been able to. I can't even imagine killing Matt or...even you, no matter how angry I get."

Arthur's eyes narrowed further, his annoyance with Alfred being hung up over the theoretical was wearing on his tolerance. There was a war going on and Alfred was acting like his soul was in danger. "Then you're a nation who won't last. France is my brother and I cannot begin to count off how often we have fought and died by each other's hands; even Rome who partially raised me...I've perished by his hands in the past," Arthur said, watching as the blond across from him seemed to be trying to protect himself from his words by turning his head away. "Killing between nations is only personal if you let it be. Yesterday's enemy could be today's ally; the same could be said just as easily about present allies turning on you tomorrow. We live a long time, Alfred, and therefore we learn to accept our reality gracefully or not survive to see the next century." He paused and waited until he had Alfred's eyes again before adding, "This is a universal truth, Alfred. Isolationism will only get you so far."

Disbelief still colored the younger man's features. He seemed torn between shouting again or needing to sit down. "How can you go on like that? How can any of you live like that?"

A crooked smile tugged at Arthur's lips and the man shrugged. "I trust everyone to do what is in their best interest, and that is the only acceptable kind of trust in this world."

"That's wrong!" Alfred yelled back, getting his fire again and his complexion returning. "You're acting like alliances mean nothing. That everything is fleeting and you might as well kill Germany now so you all can go out for drinks before the next war!"

Arthur shrugged again. Though Alfred was horribly exaggerating, in Arthur's experiences things like that had happened. During the War of Austrian Succession he had been Prussia's enemy, then during the Seven Years' War he had been his ally and the two former foes had indeed shared a few pints together. Now? Prussia was part of the German Empire, fighting on the other front of this war alongside former enemies and now current allies. Arthur took none of the alliances personally, but thinking about it did make him see some of Alfred's point.

Though it was meaningless in the scheme of things.

"Stop thinking like a human."

That seemed to quell some of Alfred's anger beneath a wave of confusion for a short moment. "What?"

"You're thinking like a human, Alfred, and the sooner you stop doing that and think like a nation then this will all be much easier to accept and understand," Arthur replied, tone hard with an air of authority he had intentionally squelched when he had first approached the irate American. "Your brother was much more accepting and understanding of all this, now grow up and remember who and what you are."

Blue eyes widened in a look of surprise, "Matthew...Matthew knows about...all this?"

The Englishman nodded, "Before I took possession of what is now Canada, Francis had been more educational about the mechanics of our being with Matthew than I ever was with you. What Francis hadn't told him didn't take long for him to piece together on his own while he was watching Francis and I fighting over him...I suppose him having witnessed me thrust a sword through his father's heart drove the remaining points home."

Alfred had no idea Matthew had been aware of their ability to survive death, even more so he had no idea that Matthew had ever witnessed such a thing so early in his life. He knew Britain had fought long and hard for control of all of both Americas, hell he had even helped Arthur in his conquest- but he had killed Francis for the rights to Canada? ...And Matthew...had been there?

Alfred was starting to see more of Arthur's Empire side than he wanted to. He couldn't believe that the man who so candidly spoke of death and killing was the same man who raised him. Even as a child he knew Arthur had blood on his hands, a love of conquest and battle, he even knew that he could be heartlessly practical when the situation called for it. But for all the years prior to the Revolution he just couldn't stop seeing Arthur without the eyes of a child looking up at his beloved guardian. After the Revolution there was an intense animosity between them, but for the most part Alfred still held a hidden fondness for his former caretaker. The War of 1812 had all but killed any kindness left between them, and England supporting the Confederacy in the Civil War had split the wedge beyond a repairable point...or so he thought. They hadn't always been on the best of terms, but they had always walked away from conflicts with each other with their lives and limbs intact. That wasn't to say that England hadn't had the opportunity to change the status quo before...

"...So why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

Arthur felt his temperature rise before he quickly stroked his temper and snapped back, "You already asked that question, remember? You have your answer." He was not about to reopen those wounds when he had perfectly good ones from a more recent war to bleed.

"You were cryptic and vague," Alfred pressed, not letting up.

Finally, Arthur growled and threw a flippant glare at Alfred. "Because I was thinking like a human, there, are you satisfied? Do you see what becomes of the greatest nations in the world when they allow themselves to think like humans? They crumble, they are defeated, and swept away by the victors without a second glance. That, Alfred, is what we're trying to prevent here. Now, focus on the situation at hand or we'll test your conviction and see just how far you need to be pushed into taking another nation's life."

Alfred winced and looked like he wanted to say something, but he wisely didn't. Whatever thunder he had had before Arthur walked into the room was all but gone, his righteous anger along with it. It was clear to him now that any of his arguments against this plan were going to be about as effective on Arthur as they had been on Pershing and the other Allied commanders. He was on his own in the belief that this was wrong; worse was the knowledge that he'd have to go along with it any way.

He'd be a fool not to admit that he was scared.

"...May I ask you one more thing?"

Looking and feeling exasperated, knowing that this was likely not the last thing Alfred would be asking him, Arthur crossed his arms and ground out, "If you must."

Alfred's hand that had nearly smashed through the table began to flex, again another nervous tick that made him so easy to read. He licked his lips and seemed to be formulating the wording of his question in his mind, and while Arthur wanted to demand that he just spit it out so they could move on with their lives he remained silent. He always seemed to have an abnormal amount of patience for Alfred's childishness, even in this state.

Were it any other man standing before him, he would have turned on heel and left to get on with more productive measures long ago.

"They-...the commanders...told me what...what happened at Somme," he finally began, making Arthur pause and calmly wait for him to finish. "They told me because they thought that assuring me that a nation's death through means like this wasn't permanent would make me more accepting. I may not know everything there is to know about being a nation...but I know enough to know that we're far from immortal, there is a permanent death for us somewhere. So...tell me...what really can kill us...for good?"

Silence settled between them, but instead of the tense atmosphere that usually hung between them, this silence was more somber. Alfred looked like he was afraid of whatever answer Arthur gave, but was trying to be strong enough to receive it. Arthur, on the other hand, was unreadable and stoic. Alfred couldn't begin to imagine what he was thinking.

"Time," Arthur finally said after a while. "History tells us that all great empires come to an end, hearts weaken with age and newer powers rise to claim the remains."

Alfred watched Arthur with a new kind of sadness. He suddenly regretted asking something that would have Arthur admitting to his own mortality with such acceptance that his heart ached thinking the empire before him...could be coming to an end. It seemed inconceivable to him that there could be a world without England (regardless of how he had wanted to imagine it in times past); it felt like there had always been an England since the dawn of time.

An England...but...what about an empire?

"Can't a nation survive losing its empire?" Could Arthur live if he retained only his country, the island where his heart still beat?

At that, Arthur smirked. "We'll soon find out, won't we?"

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

First off, I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO GET UP! I'm now exclusively on nights at the hospital, and now with school having started on the 10th, I'm between going 40 hours without sleep to taking cat-naps in my car between classes. DX Its been a pretty shitty past few days, but hopefully things will smooth out by next week and I'll have some kind of definite schedule worked out. *sigh* I will try harder to return to a speedier posting time, promise. =T_T=

NOTE TIME!

1.) I was corrected to change "Sir Haig" to "Field Marshall Haig" or "Chief" when writing about him. :) Thank you to **~Mistajia~** for the correction, I PROMISE TO IMPLEMENT THE CHANGE FROM NOW ON!

2.) Yep, you heard it right about Russia! For those of you who don't know, the original Triple Entente of the Allied Powers was The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, France, and Russia. These three superpowers were the first big-guys "in it to win it" against the Central Powers. Now, the original plan was Russia (who jumped into the war because of the Austro-Hungarian invasion of Serbia) would knock out resistance in the east while France (who was pulled in as they were RUSSIA's ally at the time) and the U.K. (who joined for a number of reasons, but officially documented on paper-wise, they had a pact with Belgium- who Germany invaded, and Britain was pretty pissed about Germany getting cute and building a huge navy) would hold things together in northern Africa and western Europe. However, as it played out, Russia had a harder time in the east due to the weather, lack of adequate supplies like clothes, vehicles, guns, food, and medical equipment. The German and Austro-Hungarian troops were extremely well trained fighters while most Russian troops were not (hence why when they invaded Prussia at the Battle of Tannenberg, it ended with an overwhelming victory for the Central Powers even though they were vastly outnumbered). The Russian side was plagued with all kinds of unrest, low morale, and the growing tension back home that eventually lead to a revolution, the upheaval of the Tsar, and the rise of Lenin and the USSR. By November of 1917, communist Russia was formed and it pretty much retracted almost all of its forces from the eastern front. By March of the following year, we have the "official" end of hostilities on the Russian end, freeing the Austro-Hungarian and German troops in the east to back up the units in the west. Now, because the United States entered in June of 1917 the Allies had someone to fill the massive void left by Russia, however it wasn't until the following year before the bulk of American troops was amassed in Europe and really started making a difference. ;) Keep that in mind for the coming chapters.

3.) The offensive Field Marshall Haig is talking about was a real event. The "Spring Offensive" (as it is known in English) was Germany's last great offensive push in the war. The idea was to break the Allied lines and beat the hell out of them before American intervention could really have any affect. It came in four waves between March and July of 1918 and resulted in a massive amount of casualties for both sides...but mostly for the Allies. The history is there for all to read, but if you want to know what it means for the characters in this story, read on in future chapters to find out!

4.) Alright, AMERICAN HISTORY TIME: America declared war on the British Empire and Canada for portions of the north-west territory. This war was called the War of 1812 and lasted approximately 3 years. During this time, America burned and ransacked York in Canada (present day Toronto) and in retaliation in 1814 the British broke through American defenses and torched the White House and several key buildings in Washington, D.C. While tensions between the Empire and the States eased after the war ended, they heated right back up again years prior to and during the Civil War (see England supporting the Confederacy in previous notes for details). Cool fact: Francis Scott Key, the guy who wrote the lyrics to America's national anthem, wrote his famous words during the Battle of Fort McHenry while the British were bombing the hell out of it. So, lots of stuff came out of the War of 1812, including the Star-Spangled Banner. :)

5.) Finally: I hope this chapter better explains my version of nation-death, which is vital for future chapters. Yep, nations can "die" human deaths, but so long as their hearts are still beating (meaning their capitals/countries are still standing) they'll always recover no matter how nasty the wound. I mean, look at Arthur, the man's endured pretty much every way imaginable to die and he's still got it in him to declare war and snap at America when he's being stupid. As a note, neither Alfred nor Matthew have ever PERSONALLY experienced nation-death. No one's popped their mortal human cherries yet, and they're probably the only two in this war who can say that. XD

And now, a special shout-out and thank you to my reviewers! Sorry it's taken 6 chapters to do this, but I want to let you know that I read all of your comments and appreciate every one of them. YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST!:

-**Arlen**: My first reviewer! Thank you so much for taking a chance on my fic! XD

-**MelodyOfSunshine**: _Mit Ihnen zu plaudern, sind ein Vergnügen und eine Freude gewesen! Ich freue mich auf alle von unseren Konversationen und kann nicht vielen Dank genug für Ihre Freundlichkeit und wunderbare Nachprüfungen auf meiner Geschichte_. XD (And thank you for all your patience in helping rekindle my German skills!)

**-Lady Hedervary:** To the most wonderful Beta Editor and anime-geek Oneechan EVER! XD Much loves for all you do, you wonderful Hungarian-Xena, you! XDDDD

**-KitakLaw:** =^_^= My dear, it's been a pleasure and an honor to get to know you and I cannot thank you enough for helping me with all things Canada. XD _Merci beaucoup, mon ami_!

**-hana-kitzu: **:D Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

**-meow: **Love the name, =^_^=! Thank you so much for commenting and I will do my best to keep the updates commin'!

**-Gosangoku: **XD It does my heart good to have others appreciate the nitty-gritty of a story and relish in the realism. This might be a fanfic based off of Hetalia, but I do my best to toss "sugar-coating" out the window and get the characters' hands dirty. May the good hard times and Arthur-wankery roll!

**-Anon: **Your comment had me blushing like mad. :) Thank you for taking a chance on reading my story, and while England might not appreciate it, XD I'm glad you like how I portrayed his character. Since there's no way in hell of keeping dear Arthur out of the battlefield too long, rest assure there's plenty more owies to be had. ;)

**-kinoko5: **:D I know! There should be more WWI fics out there, I mean it's an incredibly critical point in history-ESPECIALLY in terms of international relations and how the foundations of our current world state came into being. I've been a student and lover of history for a long time, so it's extremely exciting to see others with the same passion. :) And yes, Arthur is a master manipulator when he wants to be; I assure you chapter 5 will not be the last we see of that feature.

**-Suzume Chiyu: **XD Amen! Power to the WWI fanfics! *salutes*

**-OoBlueBubblesoO: **Your enthusiasm is contagious! I dunno if I'll be able to whip out any comics anytime soon, but I have done them before and I never discard the possibility. =^_^= Thank you again!

Thank you again to all my readers, reviewers, to those of you who faved me, any of my stories, and added "Never Your Hero" to your alerts. XD It's such a wonderful feeling to share my work with others and see the appreciation. I hope to keep the updates coming and see this fic through to the end. :) It's been years since my last chapter fanfiction, but I'm committed with this and will do my best not to disappoint. TILL NEXT TIME! ~ 3

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_

**P.S. Important Note: WE'RE OFF TO THE RACES NOW, LADIES AND GENTS! Next chapter...IT'S ASS KICKING TIME!** XD I've been lovin' writing heavy dialogue between the characters, all the angsty goodness and these lovely heart-to-hearts, but I'm in need of a change of scenery and a little Arthur Boot-camping. ;) Who's with me?


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Seven Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter VII

_"Blood and Water."_

His uniform was stifling. The moldy caramel-colored wool seemed to be leeching moisture from his body while trying to assimilate itself like a second skin. His collar felt too high and stiff, his trousers chafed and were heavy with mud, and his leather boots felt as though they had lead weights attached. His hands were sweating and clinging to his M1917 Enfield rifle- made in America, but by original British design and commission- and the weight of the fully loaded weapon felt like a ton after having carried it for so long.

Between making mad sprints through the trench and having to dive for the deck when an explosion rocked the world around him, he was tired and was beginning to remember why he hated the smell of mud and gunpowder. It didn't help that each time he nearly face-planted in the earth took him longer to recover from; the utility belt and the pouches attached were becoming as heavy as his rifle and boots.

He had a Russell magazine pouch that knocked against his left thigh, a larger med-pack hitched against the back of his belt, and a Colt .45-caliber M1911 holstered against his right leg. There was a nearly seven-inch Mark I trench knife sheathed and clasped, handle down, on the side of his backpack that rode high between his shoulder blades. A spade sat atop the pack, buckled into a specially designed sleeve and held tight with more straps that snapped into place along his bracers. If that wasn't enough, the metal canteen settled at his waist along with the gas mask that hung beside it made him feel fifty pounds heavier. He felt like someone had decked him out for an invasion of Berlin and accidently dropped him off in the middle of fucking France.

To make matters even worse, if he had to adjust this damn British helmet one more time he was going to throw it right in the face of the man who had forced it upon him.

A shadow fell over him and the American and he immediately whirled around, one knee in the mud, rifle up and pointed at-

...Nothing.

The blond swallowed, eyes nervously flickering left to right along the dirt walls of the trench, searching for whoever had been behind him a second ago, but couldn't even find a pebble out of place. The bayonet looked like a silly unicorn horn mounted on the end of his rifle, and he felt sillier and sillier waving the weapon back and forth as if it would make his target materialize.

Jesus, he was becoming as jumpy as-

The world jolted and the horrific sound of an explosion behind him launched him forward, sending him flying before he landed face first in the dirt. His ears were ringing and he couldn't move for a few seconds, still trying to deal with the highly uncomfortable pressures fighting to rupture organs in his body. He groaned as he slid his hands beneath him and pushed himself back to his knees, vigorously shaking his head and rising up to his feet.

Having to push his helmet out of his eyes once more, he quickly heaved his rifle back into position and spun with the weapon leveled again.

The next thing he knew, a fast hand had grabbed the barrel of the rifle, yanked him forward, and the most excruciating impact of something steely slammed into his abdomen. Every ounce of air in his body exploded out of his lungs, his stomach felt like it had just collided with his spine, and before he had even regained feeling in his legs they were swept out from under him. Gravity unkindly welcomed him back to the trench floor as his back hit hard, the equipment forcing his body to contort awkwardly, and suddenly breathing wasn't as important as the feeling of a sharp edge at his neck.

A man dressed in a deep olive uniform, holding a rifle and bayonet to his throat, stood over him nearly silhouetted by the small flames feeding off the wooden fortifications that caught after the last explosion. The American was still trying to relearn how to breath as the man above him drew the tip of the bayonet horizontally along his skin, jugular to jugular.

"You're dead," the man said calmly, then slid the sword-like attachment on his rifle down to the fallen man's heart. "You're dead again."

The American turned his head to the side and coughed, trying not to heave as his stomach settled back into place above his intestines. He had to work at forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale normally, but by the time he did he was exhausted and merely thumped his head back on the ground...That blasted helmet was once again making his life miserable.

"Does...this mean...I can go home now?" Alfred asked, still trying to keep to a semi-conscious standard of respiration.

"Last I checked, dead men usually go home in a body bag. Shall I fetch one for you?"

Alfred closed his eyes, and slowly drew his right hand up to give Arthur the one-fingered salute, "Fuck. You."

Arthur tutted and settled the tip of his bayonet over Alfred's abdomen, making the American exceedingly more uncomfortable. "Now you're dead again, but this time let's pretend I stabbed you then ripped a ragged gash along your belly, making all your guts spill out. That way, you'll just die slower and, I dare say, make a much more spectacular mess of yourself."

Alfred was ready to scream and wring the Brit's neck, but first he'd have to find a way to make use of his legs again and get the hell up off the ground. "Fine, you English prick! Arthur 3 - Alfred 0, is that what you wanna hear?"

The Englishman seemed to contemplate this a moment before drawing the bayonet down lower to the critical vein running from Alfred's groin to his thigh, "Actually, this make Arthur 7 - Alfred 0...Oh, and by the way, I just severed your femoral artery, you should be bleeding out nicely in a few minutes. Arthur 8 - Alfred still 0."

"YOU GODDAMN, SON OF A-"

"Watch that tongue, boy, or we'll make it 9 and 0."

"Oh, screw you and just let me die in peace! We've been at this drill for two Goddamn months and you haven't let me rest more than an hour at a time in between petrified British rations and jumping me from behind dirt clods!" Alfred shouted, frustrated beyond reason that he was back at Arthur's feet for the umpteenth time since being drug out to this makeshift training field, and more than a little ticked that Arthur seemed to be enjoying this way too much.

What an ass!

Arthur simply lifted a large eyebrow and looked down at Alfred with another famously patronizing face. "And in two Goddamn months you've only managed to prolong your death by about half a minute each run. Given, it's progress, but not progress to be terribly proud of. In just today alone I've managed to end your life eight times and in the whole of these eight weeks you've never managed to come close to taking mine."

"Hey, that's bullshit!" Alfred retorted, glaring up at Arthur and pointing an accusatory index finger at him. "I nearly had you four days ago when I almost stabbed you with my knife."

Arthur frowned and suddenly planted his boot heel in Alfred's stomach, making the man grunt and look like his eyes were about to water. "First of all, I lost my footing and slipped into the trench, nearly on top of you. Second, you were only close to stabbing my right lung, something perfectly survivable by my count- not like that knife point I had to the base of your skull. Not even we can fight without a head, old chap."

Alfred was having problems breathing again. He grabbed Arthur's boot but couldn't dislodge it for how much pain he was in. "Wh-what...what the h-hell," He managed before having to stop and struggle to breathe again. "What the hell...did you hit me with? Ngh-! I-I think you...broke something..."

The British man didn't look too concerned, but did slowly ease his boot off Alfred's nearly crushed stomach. "Ah," he said and pulled a gleaming set of brass loops from the side of his belt, fitting them onto his fingers with one hand before making a fist, "that would be these. We call them knuckle dusters, but I believe you call them brass knuckles or somesuch in America. They're excellent for close-quarters combat and designed to rupture tissue and break bones..." He said and cocked his head a little. "Considering how hard I hit you, I likely did break something. Don't worry, though, you're not human so you'll live. My count this evening remains at eight."

Alfred swallowed hard and closed his eyes again. He felt like someone had replaced his insides with mashed potatoes and thought it would be fun to add a few razor blades to the spud pudding. He could taste blood and bile at the back of his throat, but he managed to keep it down as he forced himself to focus on breathing. God this hurt.

After the meeting in Paris, particularly after having spoken-...well, more like listened to Arthur speak, he formally agreed to his commander to undertake the mission and was hailed with a seemingly never-ending schedule of meetings and intelligence briefings. That had gone on for about a week before General Pershing informed him that Field Marshall Haig and Arthur had arranged a training field outside of Paris to get him ready for the real deal in the coming months. He hadn't been able to protest against it since he knew as much as they did that he needed to be exposed to this new modern warfare before he took on the trek towards Germany. He hadn't liked it, but he reasoned it was better than being stuck in a conference room all day, so he left with Arthur without a fuss...

Now, he regretted not having gone kicking and screaming.

The first humiliation thrust upon him had been that helmet. The moment Arthur had left Paris he had strapped one onto his head and practically ordered Alfred to do the same. Since Alfred thought the helmet was the equivalent to a popped-out metal discus, he promptly told Arthur where he could shove his helmet and to leave him alone.

He hadn't made it two steps off the truck before said "_metal discus_" launched itself like a missile from beneath the canvas and nailed him in the head. He'd been stuck with the damn thing ever since.

A firm hand on his tunic brought him back to the present and suddenly a mixture of a yelp and scream tore his throat as Arthur hauled him up. His middle was not ready for movement, and the sudden change from lying down to being yanked to his feet was too much for his gut.

He promptly threw up the moment Arthur had him standing.

Alfred sagged and would have collapsed if not for Arthur balancing him against his now stained chest, and though he was ready to pass out, Alfred could feel the Brit stiffen and develop a momentary shiver.

Served him right. Damn bastard.

* * *

Arthur had let Alfred sleep and recover the rest of the evening even though he was still uppity about the blood and American stomach contents all over his uniform. Alfred didn't care much since he had been out like a light the moment he was placed on the cot. His body repaired itself in his sleep, making him grateful since he hated the feeling of broken bones resetting and regrowing themselves.

It really was an extremely uncomfortable event to be conscious for.

By daybreak, Arthur had roused Alfred from his favorite part of "_European Hell_" and marched the still-weary American out to the desolate field.

The training area was about twenty or so miles outside of Paris and well to the south-west of the real trenches where the war was still ongoing. The British forces had used this area before to train the new recruits and what soldiers from the dominions they could as they arrived in France. Given there hadn't really been any fresh blood influx in some time, the place was all but abandoned. Pershing had considered using the area for training the America troops brought over, but instead another location had been chosen closer to the American base camp with small units being detailed to British, French, and New Zealand regiments in scattered areas closer to the front lines...mostly for scouting and observational purposes.

This place was designated for just the two of them, communicable with Paris through radio or the supply unit that came around once every other week. Since the mission to assassinate Germany had been deemed top secret, no one beyond the Allied commanders and their three national avatars had been told about the assignment. It was pretty annoying with only Arthur for company, after having been free of dealing with him for more than a few hours at best since the Revolution, but Alfred got used to it.

Besides, Arthur had given him full permission to try and kick his ass during combat drills, so it was something to look forward to when trying to vent his frustrations...He was still hopeful he _might _wipe that smirk off his tormentor's face yet.

"Since the trench scurry and self defense lesson was nothing short of disastrous," Arthur began, "we'll revisit that later and work on something that takes less steps...and undoubtedly less brain power."

That earned him a frown, but the Brit moved on.

"Let's go over some siege weapons...first, the grenade. Grenades go 'boom' and cause lots of damage, so please use them with caution."

"I know about explosives. You've been pelting me with them for the past two months-"

"And thus far you've only been extremely successful in barely keeping yourself from getting blown up. Now, the grenade is a weapon used to throw into the enemy's trench and eliminate as many occupants as possible."

"..." Alfred just gave Arthur a disgruntled look. "Are you sure you don't just eat them? I'm pretty sure some countries serve them for breakfast."

The Englishman gave Alfred a drawn expression. "Do try to take this seriously, Alfred. The last thing I need is to have to explain to the Allied commanders why you blew yourself up trying to fry a grenade."

Alfred rolled his eyes and scoffed. "You're right. They taste better poached."

Arthur sighed and decided to return to the lesson. He turned to a large steel case and opened it, pulling out a large mallet (or male genitalia) looking device, fitted with a large steel cap on top, and another device that reminded Alfred...of a pineapple.

Neither device looked like something Alfred had ever seen or used in wars he'd been involved in; in fact they kind of looked like harmless domestic items one might find in an everyday household (or attached to a certain area of the male figure). The first one kind of reminded him of a meat tenderizer while the second looked like a fruit reject. Arthur was handling them with extreme care and it took nearly all of Alfred's willpower not to laugh as the great Arthur Kirkland cradled a phallic-shaped meat tenderizer like it was a fragile scepter.

He tried thinking of crying babies and dead puppies to keep from smiling.

"This is a stick grenade," Arthur began, holding up the larger device by its long, thick wooden handle. "This is the most commonly used German grenade you will encounter in the field. The mechanics are fairly simple, just unscrew the metal cap at the bottom, pull the cord that falls out, and throw the damn thing as far as possible."

Alfred lifted an eyebrow and looked at the meat whacker with a little more interest than before. "Why are you showing me a German weapon? ...Why do you even _have_ a German weapon?"

It took Arthur a moment to answer since he was busy suppressing another sigh. "I'm showing you because knowing your enemy's strengths and weaknesses is as important as knowing your own. We've been capturing enemy weapons and technology since the start of the war and they've been doing the same to us," he said, then added, "also, if you ever get one of these tossed at you, you'll know to duck and cover and not marvel at the flying stick some Kraut just threw."

Alfred's look soured. "You know, I'm getting really annoyed with all the crack shots you've been taking at me since I got here. I thought you were supposed to be teaching me, not insulting me."

At that, Arthur smirked and tried to look as apologetic as he could fake. "Yes, forgive me Alfred. I'll try to lay off the comments..." '_If you start using your head for more than just a helmet rack_'. "Now, pay attention. The cord inside has a small ceramic ball attached, once pulled you have approximately five seconds before it explodes. Luckily for the poor sot it's being thrown at, this is just an explosive device and not something chock full of shrapnel...like this one," he continued, holding up the sorry-looking headless pineapple. "This is a British grenade, the Mills Bomb, or the number 5 if you prefer. With this device you simply pull this pin to release the safety, grip the silver lever tightly, and throw in the direction of your enemies. If the blast does not kill them, then count on the thousands of pieces of blazing-hot, sharp metal to do the trick. Do not, under any circumstances, pull and throw the pin then drop the grenade."

Alfred's right eye twitched. "Are you serious? For the last time I'm not stupid!"

"And thankfully not Italian. Now let's move on."

Arthur led Alfred away from their makeshift camp, a place Arthur only allowed Alfred to visit if he was severely injured or needed to make or take a radio communication with his General in Paris. Nights were spent sleeping in the trench, something Arthur said Alfred needed to get used to, and days were spent either learning trench construction, defending and assailing techniques, weapons training, or running simulations Arthur put together that always ended with the Brit adding a new element to the routine that resulted in Alfred "getting killed".

Arthur never killed Alfred per say, not like the Englishman had been killed at Somme or hundreds of times previous. Alfred was either disarmed, manhandled, or stunned and left open for a theoretical death blow that afterwards Arthur would then spend ten minutes explaining the anatomy of.

'_Hope you weren't counting on having that head of yours too much longer, because technically speaking it'd be detached from your shoulders right now_.'

'_Sorry about that spleen, old chap, you shouldn't go walking into bayonets like that_.'

'_Hearts are funny things, aren't they, Alfred? Can't live with 'em, and can't live without 'em...which means you're dead, again_.'

Tch. Alfred was getting the idea that the maniac had a sadistic streak and decided he would be an excellent target for some pent-up aggression. He could never say Arthur had taken it too far; the Englishman was careful to stop once the American's defeat was obvious and his point had been driven home. That still didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell. He was lucky he could take a beating and heal at incredible speeds, or else Arthur would have crippled him by now.

The saddest part was Arthur was still sporting his wounds from Somme, meaning this wasn't even Arthur at full strength. Oh yes, his side was starting to heal slowly, but well. Alfred had accidently walked in on Arthur changing his bandages a few weeks ago and saw that Arthur had removed the stitching now that the skin was holding together on its own. He guessed that time away from the real trenches and enemies was giving him time he otherwise hadn't had to properly recover. While Arthur was aggressive when training Alfred, he wasn't straining himself to the degree he must have been in the field.

In a way...Alfred was glad for that. It wasn't much of a break, but even he could see it was a much-needed respite for Arthur.

"Now then," Arthur said and pulled to a stop behind a crudely constructed cement barrier. The half moon-shaped wall was no more than four and a half feet high, covered with mud and pathetic excuses for Mother Nature's greens. Before the wall was the same bleak landscape they had isolated themselves in for the past two months; well behind it was the tent that signified base camp. "I have been very kind in only throwing German stick grenades, disk grenades, and modified gas grenades at you- none of which have shrapnel, and all of which you will be encountering at some point."

Oh, swell, nice to know Arthur had been taking it easy on him.

"I'll demonstrate the proper procedure, then I want you to follow. I know you had some rather primitive explosives during some of your wars, but none of these new grenades require manual flint or fire to ignite the fuses," the Englishman continued and unscrewed the silver cap at the bottom of the German grenade. As mentioned earlier, a ball attached to a cord fell out into Arthur's palm and he carefully took hold of it. "There have been times when our grenades were in short supply and it was necessary to take these off the German bodies we found lying around. It's survival of the most resourceful out there, so pay attention and understand that knowing an enemy's weapon inside and out is as important as knowing your own."

While Alfred hadn't liked the mental image Arthur had painted for him, he sighed and nodded, content to let the old man continue his demonstration even though Alfred was pretty sure it didn't take a genius to figure one of these things out. Seriously "_yank my chain and let'er rip_", it didn't sound terribly complicated.

With vivid green eyes focused on some indeterminate point in the field, Alfred watched Arthur exhale, pause...then yank the cord and pitch his arm back, launching the now hissing grenade with an arm any baseball pitcher would envy. Alfred's eyes were glued to the quickly disappearing mallet before a sudden explosion lit up the ground yards away. There was a backwash of heat from the blast that made Alfred guard his face with his hand, squinting his eyes a bit as the bright light dimmed and vanished into the smoke column.

Arthur looked over to Alfred and lifted his eyebrows. "Think you can do it without blowing us up?"

Recovering his composure, a little embarrassed since Arthur hadn't reacted to the blast at all, Alfred cracked him a smile and held out his hand. "Lay one on me, and we'll find out."

Narrowing his eyes a bit, Arthur bent down to the case he had brought, withdrew another stick grenade, and rose before placing it in Alfred's hand. As the American gripped it, he frowned and found Arthur not letting go. Their eyes met and Arthur looked deadly serious.

"What?" Alfred asked indigently.

"I mean it, Alfred. Be careful with this or I swear to Christ, the minute I'm revived I'm kicking your arse."

Alfred gave a noncommittal sigh and tugged at the grenade again. "Yeah, yeah. Careful as a virgin on her wedding night."

Arthur released the device and snorted, "I dare say, I pity whatever poor soul ends up married to you."

Blue eyes widened then narrowed as he muttered a few choice words under his breath, then turned toward the testing range and picked out a good spot to blast to smithereens. With one hand he unscrewed the cap, let the ceramic ball fall into his palm, and tested the weight a bit. It really wasn't heavy at all, but given how tense the cord was it was safe to say it wouldn't take a very hard tug to start the fireworks.

"Are you going to throw, or continue fondling it?"

Alfred gave Arthur a sideways glare and tightened his fist around the cord. "No thanks, I'm perfectly content caressing my own balls, thank you."

The annoyed look on Arthur's face at the vulgar comment was so worth it. Alfred knew one of the easiest of Arthur's buttons to push was to be "sinful" or vulgar with his language. Oh, it was perfectly acceptable for Arthur to do it, but heaven forbid anyone else take the Lord or the human anatomy in vein using God's given gift to the world.

Leaving Arthur still gnawing over his comment, Alfred turned back to the makeshift range and lined up his shot.

With a flick of his wrist, Alfred yanked the cord, heard the hiss, and swung his arm back before twisting his body into the release for more power. The grenade tore through the air like a missile, spinning head over tea-kettle in rotations so fast it practically looked like a ball whizzing through the atmosphere. Arthur's eyes were wide and he looked a bit stunned as they both watched the explosive vanish into the ether.

Alfred looked incredibly pleased with the throw, but after losing sight of the bomb and still no explosion he started to get a little worried. Had the bomb been a dud? He didn't know much about German engineering so he couldn't really say if it was reliable or not, but maybe Arthur had given him a bad-

Way off in the distance...and what looked like a mile off the ground, an explosion happened in mid air far enough away that it was nothing more than a resounding _bang_-_pop _where the two allies stood. Neither one of them said a word for a few moments; Alfred looking somewhere between astonished and sheepish, while Arthur looked like he wanted to shoot himself.

"...If you were aiming for phantasmal low flying aircraft...good job, otherwise I thought realistic aiming was self-explanatory."

The American's shoulders slumped and he sighed. It had been a problem since he was a kid; he really needed to work on controlling his own strength.

* * *

Since Arthur refused to continue with 'grenade throwing lessons' in light of the German _schlong_-launching episode, the Englishman forced Alfred to don all of his gear and go trench slumming again. Considering it was mid-August now and blazing hot, Alfred would have much rather spent the day lobbing explosives. Still, he guessed being out here was better than being in Paris...or enduring what the troops were.

During their time training, the situation was still flip-flopping for the Allies in the war. Things were getting critical, yielding more casualties and setbacks than victories.

Word that the Russian Tsar, the man who had supported the war and signed the documents sealing the Triple Entente, had been usurped had finally reached the Allies. While the new temporary government voted to continue the war as per their commitment, the final offensive they launched had ended in absolute and utter disaster. As feared, the unstable Russian government and ill-treated army had lost complete touch with each other and talks of a new government that did not support the war taking over had begun to take hold of the headlines. It was something the Allies had expected, but it was still a worst-case scenario they had hoped would never come to pass.

Upon receiving the news a few weeks ago, Arthur had voiced his premonition to Alfred and his commander that he wouldn't be surprised if the Russians pulled out before the year was over...which stressed their theoretical timetable badly.

On top of all this, thousands of French soldiers, tired of being treated like cannon fodder, threw down their arms and began to strike against the government and their leaders. The soldiers protested the way the war was being run, that they were tired, ill-supplied and fed, being killed by the thousand every day, and wanted their commanders to remember they were citizens just as much as the Parisians who walked the golden streets of splendor. The strike was devastating to the Allies but higher-ups struggled to keep the matter as quiet as possible, lest morale be weakened even more and affect troops all along the front. The results had amounted in mass arrests, speedy trials, and what executions weren't done in the field were carried out after guilty sentences were passed. It was a terrible time they were all dealing with, and both national avatars had wondered how Francis was holding up.

While Arthur could imagine the possibilities on a much broader scale than Alfred, the closest the American could draw from were his memories of the Civil War...While this mutiny was nowhere close to the scale of those wretched four years, Alfred had shivered at the thought and silently wished Francis well.

As far as the Americans went, the majority of the American Expeditionary Force had begun to arrive, and word from back home had stated that the Selective Service Act would promise even more troops as the year went on. In all, Pershing had said that they would have upwards of a million troops by the following year, possibly even twice that. While this helped ease the fear surrounding Russia's inevitable withdraw, there was still the matter of how untrained for modern warfare the American troops were.

Pershing was an old soldier, one who had been trained in the same tactics and mobile warfare America had always used in its ground campaigns. This meant troops were constantly moving, independent of each other as they took aim, fired, and pressed on. Units stormed the field and attacked in swift agile groups that took down opponents hard and fast; such a strategy had proven numerous victories since the dawn of America's first militia and most Americans saw no reason to change it.

However...this was modern warfare, now. This was a different kind of animal than native tribes and empires playing at a gentleman's war. These weren't the lands of the south-west, fighting Mexico or charging the Spanish on a small island in the Atlantic. While British and French forces struggled to get that across, tried to train as many American troops as they could, the majority simply grouped together and alienated themselves from their allies. The philosophy was that European methods were obviously not working since this was the third year of the war, and Americans were determined to end it the American way before it saw its fourth.

From what Alfred could garner from Arthur's reactions to the telegrams he received from his command, and what he could hear from the brief and cryptic radio conversations, things weren't exactly going swimmingly for the British either.

Apparently, the Passchendaele Campaign was in full swing and not doing very well. It seemed that not only had fate turned against them, but the weather as well. The entirety of the fields of the north, closest to Belgium, had flooded and the heavy rains had refused to let up all month. Men had been trudging through incredibly high waters, sinking in mud, and drowning when exhaustion overcame them and they collapsed, crushed by the weight of their gear. The casualties were mounting to incredible figures while less-than-expected yards of ground were barely being captured and held on to. The Germans, who were suppose to have been crushed by artillery bombardments before the advance, had been spared the brunt of the shelling attacks because aerial observation units couldn't fly and relay proper coordinates. Instead, bombs were exploding over canals, river banks, and upturning the earth...causing the buried to resurface and haunt their surviving comrades struggling to get by.

Alfred remembered something similar during his Civil War. The name of the battle was nothing but a foggy whisper in his mind; he'd been so deep in insanity and pain that he had barely been coherent...let alone able to take note of the all the massacres ripping him apart.

There had been mass flooding in the low valleys to the south, soaking the ground until it was virtually tar beneath the feet of Union and Confederate soldiers alike. Cannons had failed, rifles had failed, the water ruining all long-range support and tainting necessary black powder needed for firing. Men had charged each other, bayonets, swords, daggers at the ready, and a mass slaughter of raw primitive power leveled Americans on both sides.

The flood waters ran red, gore and entrails floating on streams of stained currents, and those who had been wounded and unable to stand had been forced to fall beneath the waters and watch their last breaths bubble to the rippling surface. Mounted units had fallen, tumbling in the waves and crushing those beneath them; those who had been fortunate enough to find high ground had had to fight their fellow human beings for the right to live. Water polluted by spilt bodily fluids invaded the survivors, killing them slowly like the disease of pride that had brought about this bloody conflict, turning fathers against sons and brothers against brothers.

When the waters had receded...the blood and bodies were gone...but the memory remained there forever.

Alfred had never talked about the melancholy that followed reminders of his Civil War, and Arthur wisely never asked. Both men kept the worst of their thoughts to themselves except for the rare occasions, like when Arthur decided to be merciful and suspend training for an evening. One such night, Alfred had been in the process of falling unconscious from exhaustion when Arthur decided to be a little nostalgic...Alfred tried his best to hang on and listen to the man's words, but he was pretty sure he translated bits and pieces of it into a foreign language in his own head.

* * *

_It was pretty cool that night, but the weather over France had been going on unseasonably weird for close to three years, as though God was angry with man's stupidity and wanted to let him know it. It had rained, but even so Arthur had forced them to sit in the trenches and gain what he called 'preemptive experience'. Alfred was pretty sure that was an awful oxymoron, but didn't complain too much since he was sure his exhausted body wouldn't be able to haul him out of the trench. He could barely remain sitting up as it was. Alfred knew that if Arthur wasn't sitting opposite him with one boot pressed firmly against his own outstretched one, he'd have slid down the muddy wall and likely drowned on his back during the night._

"_...You know, my first night in a trench was probably one of the oddest experiences of my life."_

_Alfred responded with a nonsensical noise, having trouble keeping his eyes open. "You don't say? ...Most people aren't this far down in the dirt 'till they're dead."_

_Arthur quirked a smile at that, still very much awake and looked up at the blackened sky as rain continued to fall on them. "Ironically...those had been my thoughts exactly. I've been in a lot of wars in my time, but none like this...it's almost like someone threw me into the future and I just now realized it."_

_Alfred was pretty sure Arthur was trying to be deep and meaningful at the moment, but his calm and accented voice was lulling him faster towards sleep. Arthur's voice always had that effect on him, it was why he always begged him to read him stories as a kid. Alfred imagined that Arthur's voice was a lot like the sea he had never sailed- calm, quiet, as vast as it was never-ending, and could always slowly rock him to sleep with its ancient magic. His conscious opinions of Arthur were almost always negative; he was fighting with the man more often than not, and since declaring his independence there had never been a moment of tenderness between them, unlike the past. But subconsciously?_

_There was always that little kid, reaching out with small hands seeking bigger ones._

"_Before this war...I never thought I had reached my full potential as a nation...I never thought I was through growing or being the greatest world power..." Arthur's voice drifted to him, slowly making him realize how sad and lonely the sea could be. "...Now, I'm afraid I've discovered that there is a tourniquet...I thought I was so far ahead, but now I realize just how far behind I am. I'm constantly struggling to catch up, but every time I'm even with my enemies, I realize I'm running alongside a shadow. I'm beginning to wonder...if that means I don't have it in me to improve anymore...that I'm meant to be left behind because I can't adapt fast enough to the times that are running away from me."_

"_Cut it off..." Alfred slurred out in his sleepy state, sagging a little more into the ever softening wall behind him. "Tourniquets...are made of cloth...so cut it off."_

_Alfred's vision was blurred, his eyes inching ever closer to closing, but he could have sworn the look on Arthur's face was surprised...and almost thoughtful. _

"_I gotta knife...if you need help," he offered, though he really wasn't sure where he put the damn thing at the moment. But if Arthur was in danger of dying from lack of blood circulation, he could find it and rip apart whatever was choking off his supply._

_He couldn't see it very well, but he thought he saw Arthur give him a smile. Not a smirk, quirk, or that damn near infuriating grin of his...but a real smile, the kind he used to have when he'd been his colony and did something Arthur found endearing...Kind of like the time Alfred botched bandaging him up after he came home from overseas so long ago...God, he'd been such a mess..._

_Slowly, Alfred felt the pressure of Arthur's boot against his pull away. He would have protested and argued that it was the only thing keeping him up, but something warm slid down the wall next to him and settled at his side. He was so tired and his damn helmet was really hindering his peripheral vision, but eventually his exhaustion won out and he slumped against whatever was next to him._

_His head rolling to the side, resting against the warmth next to him, he gave into his sleep deprivation and didn't feel the rain anymore._

_He thought someone had said something to him, but all he could hear was the gentleness of the sea, slowly rocking him into oblivion with its ancient magic._

_

* * *

_

Alfred yelped as a shower of dirt exploded overhead, making him hit the deck and cover the back of his neck as dirt and rock pellets rained down on him. Blazing blue eyes flashed as he lifted his head and glared up from the empty trench he'd been crawling through on his belly.

"JESUS H. _CHRIST_, ARTHUR! You almost _hit_ me that time!" He ranted, screaming from his sprawled-out position on the baking earth.

The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a new bullet entering a rifle chamber, then being slammed home made the American growl even louder. "I told you to keep your head down. You're like target practice at a carnival. Now stop whining and get moving," Came the response as Arthur moved to another position to snipe him. "Oh, and by the way, you're now four minutes and thirty-three seconds past time. I dare say, you haven't done this badly in weeks."

It was official. The second he got out of this trench, he was taking his Mark I and shoving it right up Arthur's pompous English ass!

Muttering another curse, Alfred gripped his rifle tighter and continued to crawl on his belly, using his elbows and knees to propel him along while his mind wandered through all the ways he could maim Arthur.

For the love of God- this damn helmet! The thing wouldn't stop sliding down and blinding him like some spiteful adolescent tenaciously playing peek-a-boo. Yet another thing to shove up Arthur's ass when he got topside; the Brit would wish he'd died and stayed dead.

Alfred tried to keep alert for any sounds of footsteps or rifle-handling above him, but Arthur was notorious for going ridiculous periods of time without firing just so Alfred's stressed nerves would get to him and he'd pop his head up...only to get grazed with a bullet or scared shitless when one nearly collided with his head. Arthur said the point was to condition him to be goal-oriented, focus on the mission, remain hypersensitive to his surroundings, and learn some "_bloody self control_" while he was crawling through hell. While that was all well and good, Alfred thought, this was more an exercise in sadism with Alfred roleplaying a fuckin' Jerry.

Not that he didn't have some German blood in him, given that there was a pretty decent population of Germans in his country, but really this was just ridiculous.

He was sweating like a man roasting over a spit, and his glasses continuously slipped down his nose. If he wasn't pushing the helmet back up with an agitated head jerk, he was swiping the side of his face on one of his shoulders to fix his specs. His equipment was getting unbearably heavy again and the dust on his rifle was turning to mud in his hands. He was uncomfortable, sore, and mad as hell. But anger right now was a good thing, it was keeping him going.

He couldn't stop cursing Britain and this stupid war, he couldn't help but get pissed at France for needing so much help in the first place. He was _really_ cursing the Germans, throwing every obscenity in his surprisingly long vocabulary of vulgarity at the Krauts for making his life so damn miserable. Hey, while he was at it, he threw cursing the Austro-Hungarians, the Ottoman, Bulgaria, and all of freaking Europe into his mix of hate. He had been perfectly content to remain neutral in his isolation (that was a lie), and then every empire on the friggin' map had to go and decide to make a contest of '_who's the bigger dick_'. So why the hell should he care? He was confident in his own prowess, his economy, his own little place in the world; he was the Goddamn 'New World' for Christ's sake, so why the hell was he being dragged across the fucking ocean to this hellhole of the 'Old World'?

When this was over, heaven help whoever decided to start another one of these; America was making a promise here and now to personally kick their asses.

Suddenly, Alfred was snapped out of his inner ranting as the endpoint came into sight. The end of the trench leveled off at an incline and crude wooden ladder embedded into the wall. All Alfred had to do was get there, grab the red flag posted in the ground and toss it up from the trench. That would signal the end of the exercise and Arthur to drop the rifle and come over to tell him how horribly he did.

Arthur called it lifesaving constructive criticism, Alfred called it getting ripped a new one.

Not today. Alfred was determined to give Arthur a what-for and turn the Brit into carved meat. He clenched his jaw as he snatched up the flag and weight attached, then pitched it up and over the dirt wall. He waited a few seconds incase Arthur decided to try and shoot him for no reason, then he shouted that he was coming out and those weren't blanks in his own rifle. Grabbing onto the first plank of wood, Alfred hauled himself up, straining a bit as his sore muscles protested, and climbed out of the trench.

When he got to the top, he nearly collapsed on the solid earth and felt like he could breathe easier. One has no idea how stifling and crypt-like the air is down in a trench until one has been there, then tasted the sweet breeze topside. Oh God, it felt good.

Oh, right, anger. Remember anger.

Alfred had to adjust his helmet and glasses again before narrowing his eyes and pushing himself to his feet. He quickly scanned the area for any glint of dark blond beneath a metal helmet, green uniform, and rifle more than likely slung over his shoulder. He was starting to get a bit nervous as he continued to look around, finding nothing, then turned in the direction of camp on the _other _end of what must have been a good mile and a half of trench and saw a canvassed army truck that hadn't been there before.

...Ten bucks said he was not going to enjoy the hike back.

By the time he got back to base camp, he was sweating even more than usual, panting, ready to fall over from what had to be one hundred pounds of gear on his person, and had to bend over with his hands on his knees just to catch his breath. He would have given anything for a bucket of icy cold water, permission to get out of his uniform, and a fresh cot to collapse on.

Oh, he was sure heaven was a spartan barrack in the celestial militaristic sky.

The sound of footsteps broke him from his thoughts as a shadow fell over him. He would have thanked whoever it was for giving him some shade, but since he knew it was Arthur he decided he could go without the gushy '_thank you_'.

"You can strip out of your gear and put it on the truck. We're going back to Paris."

Alfred was pretty sure he heard that wrong and tilted his head up, giving Arthur a puzzled look, "...Huh?" was all he could manage; his mouth and throat were so dry and he was still breathing too hard.

The Englishman's expression looked deadly serious, Alfred would even say it looked taunt with stress as green eyes nervously looked away from him. There was a British soldier standing outside the driver's side door of the truck in the distance, and another was carrying the trunks of weapons and war paraphernalia to the vehicle.

Blue eyes looked questioningly back to Arthur and then to the telegram clenched in Arthur's left hand. It wasn't as if Alfred would be complaining going back to Paris at this point, but by his account they were scheduled to be out here at least another month...if not two.

"What-"

Arthur suddenly pushed the telegram into Alfred's chest, making the unstable American grunt indignantly and work to keep his balance. "Read it on the way, we're moving out now."

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

AND THUS CONCLUDES "ARTHUR BOOT-CAMP"!

Hello all and welcome back! I hadn't anticipated getting another chapter out until next week, but I got home from work Thursday morning and couldn't sleep a wink. I just grabbed my notebook, textbooks, logged onto the school archives and went to town. XD Gotta say, I had a lot more fun with this chapter than the previous one, which made production a whole lot faster. I hope you all enjoyed my mini-Hetalia episode with all the cannon references I threw in there- call it a commercial break from the down-right angsty seriousness of it all. BUT! I still kept all the angsty glory, a little bit of squishy goodness, and-of course- written on no sleep with lots of love. XD So there's something here for everyone. :) As always, PROPS TO MY BETA-EDITOR WHO NEVER COMPLAINS ABOUT MY WEIRD PRODUCTION SCHEDULE! Oneechan, you rock my world!

ON TO THE NOTES!

1.) The uniform Alfred is currently wearing is a standard issue 'Doughboy' uniform, something assigned to American G.I.s and not to be confused with the more complex officer's uniform. Arthur is wearing a BEF Infantry uniform. The reason I chose these outfits instead of their officer counterparts was simply that (as nations) they could get away with choosing practical attire over ranked since they're kind of suppose to blend in with their troops. Also, the standard issue gear equipped with the infantry level would be more on level with their current task (you know, that whole assassination thing). Traditionally, the full weight of the equipment usually carried by a soldier on either side was between approximately 85-100lbs...=T_T= Sorry, I'm American and have no idea how to translate that into kgs. DX FORGIVE ME! Also, on a side note, the famous "Tin Hats"/ "Brodie Helmet"/ "Tommy Helm" Arthur "gives" to Alfred was something I thought kind of funny given the historical significance. :) The Americans had regular ol' hats and leather caps when they came over during WWI, their British counter-parts said "Uh, no- leather skull condom = get shot and die" and gave them their iconic steel helmets to protect them from shrapnel, bullets, and debris. :) Most 'Doughboys' (as American G.I.s were called) disliked the helmets greatly, mirrored by Alfred's own dislike for them. XD So...guess you could call that a fun fact.

2.) I introduced a LOT of weapons in this chapter, and just so everyone is aware, all items mentioned are standard issue for their respective side. The "stick grenade" was an all German grenade and the most popular grenade they used throughout the war. They also cleverly used these grenades in booby traps, unscrewing the bottom caps to let the cords hang, then attached the bombs to fences, barbed wire, ECT...so if enemies disturbed the area even just a little bit and moved the ceramic ball...well, 'booms' happen. Likewise, the Mills Bomb was THE British bomb of choice. Alfred's word of choice for the bomb, "pineapple", was the official nickname for the Mills Bomb...which...really does look like a blackened pineapple. XD I gotta admit that I had always thought the "pineapple grenade" was an American bomb...I had no idea it was a British design and model first. So, PROPS TO BRITAIN FOR A SMASHING GOOD BOMB!

3.) The bit about the Americans being difficult with British and French commanders? Yeah, its very true. Just because people were allies in this war didn't mean they got along. XP Most American troops were not happy about being involved in a European conflict, they pretty much stuck together and for the most part alienated themselves from their more seasoned counter-parts unless absolutely necessary. The first American troops detailed to go out were with French and New Zealand troops, and later with the main British units towards the end of 1917/beginning of 1918. You have to remember that America's "special relationship" and better terms with Britain don't happen until WWII...which is still more than 20-30 years off at this point. Until then, its kind of like (to throw in an American saying) "we're workin' together, but we're not on each other's Christmas card lists". XD

4.) Yes, the Russian Tsar was ousted before the Americans even entered the war, but the temporary government that took power after him still supported the war for fear of critical supplies from the other Allies being cut off. Eventually, however, too many unsuccessful campaigns, incredibly low moral, and political tensions uprooted any government leaders left who still believed in supporting the Allies. Lenin came to power and an Armstice was signed between Russia and Germany in December of 1917...though the official treaty pulling the Russian troops completely out did not happen until March the following year. The French mutiny mentioned was also a real event. French soldiers reportedly weren't trying to protest the war itself, just the way it was being run and most of them simply refused to go back to the trenches until matters changed. The French commanders had apparently tried to keep the mass mutiny quiet, and to help the time table for the Battle of Passchendaele (also known as the Third Battle of Ypres) was moved up by British command to keep focus away from the dwindled French lines. However, this campaign did not go as planned, yielding less than desirable ground recovery into Belgium and amounted to mass casualties. It was reported that for 2 of the 4 months the campaign lasted, heavy rains continuously fell and flooding was a major issue because artillery shells had destroyed canals and river blockades. Thus...it was a very horrific scene and made fighting neigh impossible. With the correlation to the Civil War flashback Alfred has, that WAS an actual battle fought somewhere in Virginia, I believe...but while I remembered the details of the battle, I couldn't for the life of me remember the name to look the specific date and location up! =T_T= I felt it was important enough to add even though I'd forgotten the name since my last American History class...which was about 5 years ago. XP Couple that with the fact I totally had no sleep writing this, and you've got mega brain lapse. *sigh*

5.) Finally...*scratches head* Uhh...sorry if this chapter was difficult to read with all of Alfred's potty mouth and Arthur not making it much better. I grew up around the military and let me tell you, "cursin' like a sailor" is NOT just limited to Navy personal. Given the high stress count of the situation, I figured men at war during this time period wouldn't act much differently than the men in the fields today. Tons of vulgar jokes, obscenities, and pure cynicism helps to keep you from going totally mad.

HOT DAMN, hope the wait was worth it, and please note that I probably won't be cranking out another chapter for a while...or at the EARLIEST not until sometime later next week. Its school and work for pretty much the entirety of the semester for me, so enjoy this and I hope it holds ya.

To all my reviewers: YOU ARE ALL AMAZING! XD As always, I am eternally grateful to each and every one of you as well as those who fav, alert, or subscribe to me. =^_^= You guys MAKE my week! TILL NEXT TIME!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_

_**P.S.**_**If you haven't already read the little note at the bottom of my profile page, then here it is**: _A lot of people have asked me if my first Hetalia fanfiction "You Were So Small" is a prequel to my WWI Hetalia fic "Never Your Hero". The answer to this would be...YES. I use several points of reference from the Revolutionary War depicted in "You Were So Small" in "Never Your Hero", ESPECIALLY in interactions between Arthur and Alfred. :) If you didn't know this before, I apologize as it is my error for not making a big announcement in the Author Chapter Notes _(which I'm making amends with now)_. XD As always, please enjoy both fanfics and if you have any questions please feel free to message me. :) Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, and Violence

Chapter Eight Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/Alfred F. Jones

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter VIII

_"I'll never forget your last smile."_

"This is insanity!" Arthur shouted, no longer working at keeping his voice down whilst protesting his superior human officer.

"There is no choice!" The Field Marshal returned, dangerously close to meeting Arthur's tone. "The Passchendaele Campaign is going far worse than originally projected. I've had no choice but to transfer commands on the ground and now we've gone from spearheading the assault to merely seizing what we can and digging our heels in. To make matters worse, our distraction away from Aisne is failing. Germans are rerouting troops south and the French are still reeling from the mutiny."

"Since when are we so bloody concerned about the French?" Arthur demanded, throwing most logic out the window in light of what Haig was asking - no, _ordering_ him to do. "We tried to pick up their slack before, remember? Somme was a bloody disaster! Now you're telling me to drag Alfred along and go marching into another one? I refuse."

The Field Marshal's eyes narrowed, his face slightly turning in color as he stared the infuriated avatar down. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, but Arthur didn't look impressed in the least; if anything, he looked angrier. "Are you refusing a direct order?"

There was no hesitation in his reply: "Absolutely."

* * *

_The moment he and Alfred had arrived in Paris, Arthur had noticed an intense change. _

_Guards around the converted hotel temporarily housing Allied headquarters had increased. French guards were patrolling the area or holding stoic vigil outside of the doors. The civilian aides were quickly dashing about, doing their best not to make eye contact and get from one destination to the next without interacting with anyone. Any vehicles around them were speeding by and a small group of French soldiers ran through the alley at a brisk pace._

_Gone was the usual leisurely pace of the people; it looked as though everyone was prepared to be under attack at any moment._

_Behind the gates leading to the glitter of the city the Englishman thought Paris was going into tachycardia. The tension was so thick Arthur was sure he could cut it with his bayonet, which made the walk from the truck to the main entrance nothing short of unnerving. Alfred, walking next to him, was wound up like a top and Arthur glanced and watched his blue eyes flicker to and fro as if he were back in the trench waiting for someone to jump him._

_The doors opened and the pair made their way quickly to the grand staircase only to be stopped midway by an attendant. The Frenchman quickly relayed in heavy-accented English for the gentlemen to follow him immediately to the hastily called conference on the fifth floor. While Alfred looked increasingly nervous, Arthur's mind was racing a mile a minute. He was dissecting the telegram, all he had seen, and now this sudden conference that had begun without their presence. His conclusion was a grim one, and he marched in the wake of the attendant while a startled Alfred quickly hastened to catch up._

_Arthur could feel Alfred behind him, debating voicing the hundreds of questions going through his head, but the young man remained silent as they ascended the multiple stairs and ended on the fifth floor. The attendant looked frazzled and out of breath, but neither Arthur nor Alfred were winded as the human opened the doors to the conference room and ushered them in._

_The moment Alfred and Arthur stood in the room they knew something was wrong._

_There was no one else there._

_Arthur remained silent, taking in the situation while Alfred took a few more steps into the room, rapidly looking around. "Where the hell is everyone?"_

_Arthur turned to look at the attendant, but the man was gone and the doors were suddenly shut, making Alfred jump and spin. The hair on the back of the Englishman's neck rose and he instinctively grabbed the butt of his revolver, leaving it in the holster but ready to draw in a moment._

"_What the hell is going on?" Alfred asked, voice fringing on the edge of panic and getting worse as he eyed Arthur's hand at his hip._

_Suddenly, the doors at the other end of the room opened, making Arthur clear his weapon of its holster with Alfred following suit; muzzles aimed at the silhouetted figures entering the room._

_The figures stopped just shy of the conference table, seemingly frozen at the sight of Arthur aiming his officer's revolver and Alfred pointing his Colt._

_The taller figure moved forward and rose his hands to show he was unarmed, "_Angleterre_, _Amérique_...there is no need for those, if you please - put them away."_

_It took a few seconds, but eventually Alfred's arms dropped and a sigh of relief escaped him, a grin plastered on his face as he recognized Francis from the butchered version of his name. Arthur, however, only drew his arm back and pointed the revolver at the ceiling. His attention was on the man next to France, someone he recognized now that his senses weren't clouded by instinct._

_He could sense his own people._

"_Damn, Francis, you scared the bejeezus out of us!" Alfred laughed, on uncharacteristically good terms with the Frenchman- something Arthur attributed to Alfred's joy at being able to interact with someone other than the man who'd been shooting at him for two months._

_Francis smiled a bit, trying to cover something up that Arthur caught immediately but wasn't sure how to interpret. "_Me pardonner_,_ Amérique_," he began, lowering his arms and widening his smile. "I hope you can find your...bejeezus, again."_

_Alfred laughed once more and holstered his Colt, putting his hands on his hips and looking ridiculously good natured; Arthur had to fight not to roll his eyes."It's a figure of speech, Frenchie. So where's this big meeting? Was the guy mistaken when he told us we were just late?"_

_That earned the American a moment of silence as Francis stiffened and the man next to him stepped forward. His expression was stern, but Alfred recognized him as England's boss here in France...though the name was escaping him._

_Alfred didn't seem to have noticed the change, but Arthur did. Francis was extremely tense and paler still from the last time he had seen him. Field Marshal Haig was taught as well, but far more serious than the Frenchman who was still trying to smile and ease the situation. Arthur looked behind the duo to the room they had come from...there was no one he could see, meaning whatever had transpired in the adjacent conference room was over or had never taken place._

_Something was incredibly off._

"_Sir," Arthur said, only now stepping forward to be even with his American counterpart, not addressing Francis in the least. "Perhaps you can fill us in?" He was careful to keep the subject broad, unlike Alfred, Arthur doubted there had been a meeting...at least not the kind they had originally been thinking of._

_Haig rose and eyebrow and nodded. "Certainly," he replied and looked between Alfred and his own nation. "But before we begin, Mr. Jones, Monsieur Bonnefoy has offered to escort you to see General Pershing so you may confer with him that you are here."_

_Now it was Arthur's turn to stiffen, but Alfred didn't seem to notice as he smiled and nodded. "Alright. He'd probably be angry with me if I broke protocol by not saying hi my first day back," he replied and turned to look at Arthur, oblivious to Francis giving Haig a look behind his back. "Shouldn't take me long, okay?"_

_Arthur's face was blank. He was more than confident it was going to take Alfred longer than the American anticipated._

"_Quite," was Arthur's only response._

_Francis rounded the table and escorted Alfred from the room, distracting the young man by asking him when the last bath he took had been. Alfred's reply had been loud and indignant, but was lost as the doors behind Arthur closed._

_Once again, it was just him and Haig._

"_...He's a very trusting individual," Haig observed in a low tone, "at least more amiable than when he first arrived."_

"_He still believes there's no such thing as backstabbing among allies," Arthur replied. "He's very naïve about European ways."_

_Haig gave a tired smirk at that, as though politics were just as much a burden to his own aging European mind. "I thought you were supposed to correct that during these past few months."_

"_You told me to turn him into a soldier, not politician."_

_The old man seemed to think about this and nodded, "Bravo. I hope you've achieved your goal, Lord Kirkland...because you'll be taking him out to the front tonight."_

_That had sparked everything._

_

* * *

_

Things had apparently gone to hell while he'd been gone.

The French Commander-in-Chief of the armies, Joffre, had been replaced and in a short time that man had been replaced too. Between the mutinies and rapidly changing leadership, the other Allies were getting more and more nervous - coupled with the track record of bare wins and blood-drenched defeats, it was safe to say things were spiraling. The Americans were still coming in droves, but the command was becoming less agreeable to deal with as conflicting strategies caused more rifts than cohesion. One example would be the meeting two days ago...it ended in no progress and even worse relations than before.

Field Marshal Haig had made the decision to move forward with the contingency plan; he sent word yesterday to have Arthur and Alfred returned...he had not included the other two commanders in the decision.

Francis, however, had intercepted the message before it left Paris and immediately moved to confront the British Field Marshal about it. However, that spat ended with Francis grudgingly agreeing that with the current outlook being so grim, there was little time to waste in moving forward with the plan. Simply charging at the Germans was not working, flanking them was becoming more and more difficult, and the weather over most of the country was working against them and giving the Germans the advantage.

For fear of losing more lives and risking more mutinies, Francis allowed the message to pass and opted to remain silent about it to Commander Pétain and General Pershing.

Arthur was furious, so sick and tired of these damn politics even though they had been utilized to ensure victory the way his own commanders saw it. What he wouldn't give to just fight wars like they used to: to hell with politics and just keep going until the last one standing was declared the winner.

The only problem was...they were coming down to that wire and it seemed more likely the last man standing would be German.

"Don't insult me, _Field Marshal_," Arthur growled, biting out Haig's rank after the man's last statement. "I used that tactic on Alfred to deliver him to you, it won't work on me."

"Insubordination is not tolerated in this army, _Lord_ Kirkland," Haig returned, emphasizing Arthur's title in turn. "Not even from you! I recall reminding you that where British matters were concerned here in France, my word was law. You'd do well to remember that if you want to stay in this war!"

Without warning, Arthur threw his head back and laughed. It was humorless and bitter, just like the smile he returned to his commander while anger rolled off his form. "To have my warring privileges revoked because I won't take a child to the slaughter? That's brilliant," he replied, and quickly his face darkened. His body language echoed violence as he took a step forward and locked cold green eyes with the human's. "I think it's time for you, _sir_, to remember who and what I am."

The natural human response to a nation's threatening presence was to cower and flee. Men with more status and age than Field Marshal Haig had done just that when faced with Arthur's fury, even men as high and proud as kings had quaked when the representation of all of England rose against them. Nations were naturally endowed with the power of their origin, the strength of their people, and the minds of immortals who knew life and death beyond the constraints of lesser human beings. Arthur was smaller in stature than many of his kind, but he had not risen as the greatest of world empires without gaining the respect of those greater in size through fear and demonstrations of power. England was not the oldest of European nations, but he was among the strongest...he would not let anyone, especially not those who felt they wielded power over him, forget that.

While the Field Marshal's complexion had paled and a shudder ran through him, the old soldier held his ground and met Arthur's stare with one only slightly subdued. He knew backing down to Arthur Kirkland would only serve to make all of his effort to this point fruitless. There was too much at stake, too much he knew would be lost if this failed, and he was not willing to accept that failure. He hadn't lost faith him his empire yet, and he was determined to see this through to the end.

If not for the sake of the empire, then for the sake of the world.

"I have not forgotten, Arthur," he said, using a firm tone as he switched to using Arthur's first name. "It is because I have not forgotten that I task this of you. You say your counterpart is not ready, but I ask you this: how many more lives are you willing to sacrifice before you are satisfied he is?"

Arthur paused in his advance and stood nearly toe to toe with Haig. The old man's gaze never wavered, and Arthur would be lying if he said he was not marginally impressed. There was an air of well concealed desperation on the old man's part, hidden beneath the layers of weariness and cold. The commander was dedicated, so much so that he would fight Arthur on the legitimacy of his plan, something the old nation had thought was lunacy from the start...yet still convinced Alfred to go along with it.

Hypocrite. _I am a hypocrite_. The words kept circulating in his mind.

Seeing Arthur's pause as an opportunity to continue, Haig went on, "Over 200,000. That's how many men are buried in the mud between France and Belgium, all of them buried while you've been gone," Haig said watching Arthur go ridged. "I don't need to tell you there will be countless more if this fails."

Arthur knew this was manipulation, he knew Haig was twisting him into a position from which there was no escape. But there was also no denying the truth of his words. Every time he had closed his eyes or fell asleep he felt and saw what was happening in the north. He saw British men being torn apart by machine gun fire, or drowning in overflowing rivers and mud. He watched men fleeing from mustard gas and being blown to pieces by enemy grenades. It was why he forced himself into insomnia and rarely allowed Alfred to rest during training. It was why he pushed him so hard and kept the two of them as busy as possible.

He didn't want Alfred to end up like the men he watched die every night any more than he wanted to sleep and be right there with them among the seas of death and ashes.

Two-hundred thousand...It seemed like such a small number compared to all of the lives lost until now...but Arthur's heart sank and he felt every one of those lives like a new fissure inside of him. They weren't numbers to him...they were never numbers to him...

They were his citizens. They were his men.

Alfred had been his son.

He had the chance to end it and spare any more Allied lives if only he would take Alfred straight to the heart of the beast and force him to gut it out. That was Haig's silent message and Arthur knew that as much as it infuriated him, it also defeated him. He had no more choice now than he'd given Alfred back in that tent at the American base camp. Victory, the end of all this, was as important to Arthur as freedom was to Alfred...and Haig knew that.

Damn him.

"..." The Field Marshal waited for Arthur to speak, but the nation was silent as he lowered his eyes and turned away. The old man knew he had won, but it was bittersweet. He would do whatever it took to spare lives and win this war...both of them would. "I will not blame you for despising me, Lord Kirkland."

Arthur clenched his fists, but eventually relaxed them and turned his eyes back to the human, "For condemning the man who was my own to death, expect nothing less..._sir_."

Turning on heel and heading for the exit, Arthur left the commander in silence and never looked back.

Arthur had no desire to see anyone, human or nation, as he absently made his way down to the lower levels where his room had been. He didn't want to sleep, but his body was aching for it. He wanted to clean off the dirt and grime from the training field from his clothes and body, and just a moment of peace before he returned to the war...and old fears.

Whenever Alfred had been injured as a child, he had experienced a panic like none he had ever felt before. During their wars against each other, seeing Alfred broken and so close to death's door had torn him apart. Now...they were on the same side and he was willingly leading him right to Germany's door...through fields of mud, blood, poisonous gas and fire.

He couldn't imagine what he'd be feeling this time. He didn't even want to begin to.

The Englishman listlessly approached his door and pushed it open, not caring for anything more than a hot bath and bed, when a sudden boisterous greeting interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, Arthur! What took ya?" Alfred chirped, seated on the edge of the freshly made bed, one dirty boot beneath him while the other swung carelessly over the side.

Francis was near him, his back to Arthur until he half-turned and relished in the Brit's startled expression. Francis quirked a grin at Arthur's befuddled look, and the Frenchman crossed his arms before answering, "It seems the _Général_ was busy attending to other matters, so I left a message with the attendant and told Alfred it would be best to wait for you here. We did not know how long you would be."

Arthur recollected himself and frowned, glaring at Francis who he knew had only been distracting Alfred and keeping an eye on him while Haig revealed the real reason they had been summoned back. He bet Pershing had been conveniently indisposed; he also bet that the message left for the General had nothing to do with Alfred's presence here.

"Right," Arthur muttered, then turned his eyes from Francis back to Alfred and looked positively affronted. "Get those filthy boots off the bed! What ails you?" he demanded, very annoyed that _Alfred's_ boots were messing up the bed meant for _him_.

The American rolled his eyes like an insolent teenager, which by their standards he was, and added insult to injury by lifting up his other foot to perch on the end of the bed. "Relax, Arthur. Geez, you're so uptight."

"Uptight-!" Why again had he felt so guilty about this twit getting shot at? "Perhaps I should drape my filthily garbed self all over your bed and see how you like it?"

Alfred smirked and gave him an amused expression, "I wouldn't care. My bed is in America, anyway."

A jolt went through Arthur and he barely suppressed the urge to grab the nearest object and throw it at the young man's face. But the last time he did that, with the pillow, had not yielded particularly fantastic results.

Growling in exasperation, Arthur put his hands on his hips and glared at the pair before him, "If you're both quite finished and satisfied I wasn't eaten alive, kindly vacate _my_ room and leave me in peace. I intend to get cleaned up and rest for a bit..." He thought for a moment and then looked directly at Francis and added, "_Alone_."

The Frenchman looked particularly annoyed, but managed a pout as his usual perverted retort was cut off. Alfred, however, just laughed and flopped back on the bed, surprising both of his older counterparts. "Considering the hell you put me through these past two months, I'm making my claim on this room and you can go find your own."

Both Francis and Arthur stared at him in shock, Alfred, however, didn't look the least bit concerned. As the blue-eyed Frenchman turned to look at Arthur, he flinched and took a step back at the expression on the Englishman's face.

Oh dear...

"Now, Alfred," Francis began, keeping his eyes on the slowly advancing Arthur while trying to coax Alfred up. "There are plenty of rooms here, I mean this was a hotel. Perhaps I can show you one better suited for-"

"No thanks, I like it here just fine."

Suddenly, a pair of hands shot down, grabbed Alfred by the lapels of his uniform, and yanked him up. Wide blue eyes were now face to face with a set of very green.

"I'm not in the mood, Alfred. Move, or I shall move you."

Surprisingly...Alfred only grinned at that. "Go for it."

Without warning, Alfred uncoiled the leg beneath him as he quickly flopped backwards, suddenly jamming his shin into the junction between Arthur's inner thigh and groin. The movement gave the American enough momentum to launch Arthur over his head, watching with satisfaction as his tormentor's face contorted before he flipped. Francis was gaping at the sight as Alfred swiftly twisted and righted himself, one knee on the bed while he planted his other foot on the floor...unlike Arthur, who was completely down on the hardwood on the other side of the bed.

Alfred was positively beaming, hands raised for a fight as he waited for Arthur to get back up and start a row. Francis was sputtering angrily in French, but Alfred was ignoring him as he continued waiting for Arthur.

After a moment with no sign of the Englishman, Alfred lifted an eyebrow and tried to replay the move in his head. Had he struck him hard enough to cause-

A hand shot out from underneath the bed, latching onto Alfred's ankle as the startled American yelped. With a strong yank, Alfred's one-legged stance collapsed, his arms pin-wheeling and only catching air as he hit the deck hard on his rear. It was rather embarrassing, but he didn't have long to berate himself before he was suddenly drawn under the bed at incredible speed.

He yelled before vanishing from Francis's sight, the Frenchman looking just as surprised as Alfred had been before he cringed at the sounds of a scuffle beneath the bed. He groaned and put a hand to his forehead as the bed started to shake and sharply rise at intervals, American curses punctuating each one before the voice was muffled and silenced.

Calmly, Arthur pulled himself out from beneath the bed, patting himself off, and rose to his feet without looking particularly frazzled. Francis slid his hand down his face, frowning at the Englishman and sighing.

"Now what did you do to the boy?" he asked, though not sounding very concerned for Alfred's well being.

"If he gets out from his current predicament, you may ask him," Arthur replied, and stepped over to the dresser to remove his belts.

Francis raised an eyebrow at that, then glanced over to the bed as he heard someone struggling beneath it. The struggling went on for a while as Arthur removed his button-up tunic, leaving his undershirt on, and removed all of his weapons but his side holster. Francis found that to be an odd, but his attention was reverted back to the bed when Alfred suddenly rolled out from underneath it, looking disheveled and...shoeless?

Arthur calmly turned around and leaned back against the bureau, arms and ankles crossed, as he looked down at the half crouched Alfred with a bored expression. "You had to remove your boots to undo the tie? Forgive me if I'm less than impressed."

Alfred growled, "Hey, that was cheap! You freakin' tied me up with my own boot laces and stuffed pistol rag in my mouth!"

The Frenchman's eyebrows went up and his jaw hung. Arthur had arrested Alfred with his own boots? If the situation hadn't been so tense, he would have laughed.

Arthur did not look amused at all and only shrugged. If anything he seemed a bit disappointed. "You shouldn't have made it so easy."

Without warning, Alfred sprung from his position and charged Arthur, making Francis quickly draw back as his younger English brother dodged Alfred's punch thrown to his face.

Alfred was quick to follow up his punch by drawing up his knee to nail Arthur in his exposed side, but the Brit had blocked the knee with his hand and used the other to catch Alfred's second punch. Having gone through this routine before, Alfred let Arthur twist his arm back while he hooked his own leg behind Arthur's and yanked, offsetting the man behind him as Alfred intentionally dropped his weight back.

With Arthur slammed against the top of the dresser, Alfred drew back his once captured arm and spun out of the Englishman's grasp. Arthur pushed himself back up and hit the deck, rolling away from Alfred who brought his heel down hard on the surface where Arthur had once been. The wood fractured, making Francis behind them resume his angry French cursing, but neither combatant paid him mind.

Arthur was too busy getting back to his feet in time to catch Alfred's rebound assault, and Alfred was getting frustrated with how well Arthur was thwarting him.

Advancing with a number of punching combinations, Arthur kept up a steady retreat while blocking and diverting blows. Alfred was gaining ground, but not headway, and just before he nearly had the Brit's back to the wall Arthur grabbed his arm again and pulled him forward into the fist meant for his stomach.

Just like he'd done in the trench by grabbing Alfred's rifle to pull him against his brass knuckles.

Alfred saw it, and this time he was the one reaching down and grabbing Arthur's coming left wrist. He painfully squeezed the Englishman's joint and sidestepped as Arthur's momentum kept him going. In an action Arthur had done to him dozens of times before, Alfred got behind the man and swiftly wrapped his arm around Arthur's throat. He felt Arthur tense like a rock as he yanked his mentor back against his chest.

One hand still restraining Arthur's, the other near asphyxiating him, Alfred kept a tight hold on his captive and grinned. They were both breathing fast, Arthur a little more so when Alfred slightly eased the pressure on his neck, and the younger man's smirk widened.

"The first time you did this to me, I think you put me on my knees first then nearly strangled me." Alfred wasn't talking about training in Paris.

Arthur swallowed, out of reflex from his sore muscles rather than fear, and his eyes slightly narrowed as a small smile quirked the side of his mouth. "Good memory. I wish you had a clearer version of it," he said, and the sound of a hammer being cocked made Alfred stiffen. "I grabbed your right hand for a reason...in case you were armed."

Alfred's eyes widened and he looked down to see Arthur's officer's revolver pointed barrel first at his side...the trajectory of the bullet had it going right through his liver and straight up into possibly his heart. The American twitched and loosened his hold a little more.

"You have two seconds."

Letting out a growl of exasperation, Alfred released Arthur completely and fought the urge to shove the man forward. Taking a step back, the American threw his arms up in anger at his defeat before crossing them in frustration. "God, you're so aggravating! I didn't pull a weapon on you!"

"Well, that hardly matters now, does it?" Arthur replied and calmly holstered his firearm. "You're still dead and I still have my room."

Alfred's face reddened, more so in embarrassment now than anger, while Francis's was reddening for a different reason.

"You _idiots _destroyed half of the hotel room to see who would win it?" he shrieked.

"I was defending myself. Alfred's the _idiot_," Arthur matter-of-factly replied.

"HEY!"

Francis did not look mollified in the least, "You had just as much a hand in this, _Angleterre_! You could have easily just pulled the gun and spared the _antiquités_!"

Alfred huffed and glared at Arthur's back. "Now where would the '_lesson_' in that be?" he barked back in his best Arthur impression, answering with what he knew Arthur's game had been about.

Arthur didn't reward Alfred by showing the annoyance he was feeling. "Yes, and just like every other lesson I've endured trying to educate you, you still end up a disappointment or dead. Now, both of you kindly leave the room or I'll take up the frog's suggestion and just shoot you both."

Alfred rolled his eyes and threw his arms up again, turning on heel and heading for the door, muttering curses under his breath as he yanked the handle. "Oh, and Alfred," Arthur said, making Alfred pause and turn back to him, still scowling, "that makes today's count Arthur 5 - Alfred 0."

Alfred winced and replied with a colorful retort before leaving the room and slamming the door shut.

With Alfred gone, silence stretched for a moment before the Englishman unbuckled the holster from his leg and tossed it and the gun onto the rumpled bed. He then tilted his head up and looked at Francis watching him, more scrutinizingly than warily, and Arthur let his hands drop to his sides. "I've still got a knife on me. You know where the door is."

Francis didn't move or say anything for a moment. Gone were the antics and with them any snideness as before. Somehow, when they were alone, things were always serious. Without an audience, what was the point of keeping up openly guarded fronts and banter...even if it turned bloody. Francis thought about the irony of this before finally speaking. "You're still going through with this, aren't you?"

Nothing was said until Arthur scuffed and began to head for the bed, sitting before bending down and keeping his eyes focused on the boot he was untying. "Do I have a choice?"

"Everyone has a choice, _Angleterre_...it is only a question of whether or not one can live with the consequences."

The Brit snorted and pulled off his left boot, moving over to the right. "You still don't give a damn about Alfred or me so long as your precious country is saved, so don't start talking to me about living with consequences. Now go spout your philosophical crap somewhere else."

Francis sighed and fell quiet. He couldn't deny Arthur's words that his country and countrymen meant more to him than injury to Alfred or Arthur...he was of the same breed as the rest of Europe, where self-preservation meant more than any alliance. However, Arthur was wrong in that the consequences of the Americans and British fighting and dying in his lands did not affect him...especially if those fighting and dying were two of his own kind.

But arguing that he cared was moot; Arthur would never believe him because Arthur had intentionally tried to not care about anyone since losing his America ages ago. He hadn't personally raised another colony from the ground up as he had America, and he hadn't taken another soul under his wing and cared for them as he had Alfred. With the loss of America had come the loss of the First British Empire, the same empire Arthur had been pioneering since the 15th century...Other than the War of 1812, Francis didn't think Arthur had set foot in America since.

Aside from Canada and his islands in the Caribbean, England had all but pulled out of the once New World and poured all attention and focus into Asia. India had fallen under British control, as had Hong-Kong in China, followed by even more countries off the coast and in Africa. Australia and New Zealand ensured control of his hold in the South Pacific, and since defeating the French at Waterloo, all of the sea was firmly British.

But Francis still hadn't seen Arthur smile since the day Alfred had accompanied him into Canada and aided him in taking the land from France. The next time he had seen Arthur in North America had been that tent in New Jersey during the American Revolution...he only saw Arthur again after Cornwallis's surrender, when Alfred and his men brought the defeated embodiment of the empire to the fort at Yorktown. He could never remember having seen such vacancy in those green eyes before or since...had he not been reveling in the irony of Arthur losing his own precious stake in the New World as Arthur had stolen his...he would have empathized.

Today, in North America, Arthur still had Canada loyal to him, the son he had wrested from French control long ago. But even now Canada was beginning to become far more self-sustaining and autonomous, just as America had done so rapidly under England's reign. Canada hadn't shown signs of it, but Francis knew Arthur always feared it...another rebellion, another hold in the world being ripped from him...another son lost.

The "dominions" began to rise out of colonial status, and all England could do was grant them their freedom or fear them taking it...just like America.

'_What a bitter old man you've become, _Angleterre_...you fear the 'morrow even when the wars are over...'_

"If you're still here when I look up, I'm going to put my threat to good use," Arthur said, pulling off his last boot and working on the socks.

Broken from his thoughts, Francis sighed again and turned towards the door, not looking back at Arthur as he spoke. "_À bon entendeur, salut_..._L'erreur est humaine_."

Arthur stiffened and kept his head down, but glanced up at Francis who was at the door. "What the hell does that mean?" he demanded...though not for lack of understanding the language.

"It means I am glad you are not human, _Angleterre_," Francis replied, turning back to Arthur as he shut the door. "Even if you act a lot like one."

With that, the door clicked and he was gone.

* * *

In the dead of night, Francis escorted a half-asleep Alfred to the truck preparing to leave for the front far to the north, precariously close to the strongest points of German control in Belgium. The trip was going to take three trains and an unknown combination of truck switches to complete the approximately 273 kilometers (170 miles) needed to reach the Allies fighting near Langemarck.

Arthur had chosen the location before leaving the hotel and speaking with Field Marshal Haig. It was the heart of the current conflict and where Germany was fighting its hardest to maintain control.

That's were their target would be - where his people were the strongest and desperately needed to be so.

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

First off, YAY FOR ORLANDO ANIME DAY 2011! 8D This past Saturday was AMAZING, I haven't had that much fun in ages; being Alfred for a day was freakin' awesome! XD But now that the convention is over, I had time to work on chapter 8 and actually JUST FINISHED chapter 9 last night (though it won't be up until I finish some final touches). I'm incredibly sorry it took longer than usual to get this up, but I hope it was worth it. :) Time for the notes, eh?

1.) Yep, we talked about the French mutinies last chapter but they really were a significant event that lead to a lot of the intense fighting between Britain + Dominions and Germany near and in Belgium. Part of the strategy was to keep the German's occupied and away from the regrouping French by attacking key areas in occupied Belgium where a greater portion of German naval vessels were based. Aside from taking key supply routes and high grounds from Germany, the Allies had also worked for breaking German moral after some recent heavy losses on their part. We'll talk about how it ended in later chapters, but suffice to say that between the politics and discord on both sides...it wasn't a pretty situation.

2.) French head command was turned over 3 times during WWI, which did not help moral or outward projections very much. Casualties were still high and fighting was incredibly difficult throughout the entirety of the war. This increased tensions in Paris, especially, since the front was moving closer and closer towards the city. Couple that with the war looking like it was going into yet another year and you've got a pretty tight set of national nerves.

3.) The Passchendaele Campaign we're talking about is also known as the Third Battle Ypres (in case ya wanted to look it up). It lasted for just under four months and didn't yield many results when weighed against the cost of lives, supplies, and time. There were many goals in that campaign, not the least of which was to draw German attention away from the French units after the mutinies as well as gain the high ground in Belgium to take the advantage in northern France/Southern Belgium. The city Alfred and Arthur are currently heading is one of the key areas standing between the Allies and the ports where the Germans kept their artery for supplies. Taking it and the towns in the area was key, but the Germans were not so easy to relinquish their hold.

4.) Yes. Arthur can be scary. Surprise. :)

5.) I know in Hetalia America is described as England's "younger brother", but in almost every history book I've ever read where a familial reference was used to described the relationship between England and its American colonies...England was more a father and America its child. America was "built from the ground up" by England and the colony most populated by British citizens during its time as England's. I know a few other authors also seem to share this philosophy (the biggest of whom I can think of is KitakLaw, who described the relationships between France, Canada, and England during and after the Seven Years War), so I didn't feel too nervous about kinda goin' against cannon there and tying parental claims into this. :) Of course, we all know America did eventually sever ties with his "dad" and became autonomous. Its kind of like "retracted adoption"...with loads of musket fire, swords, and a shit ton of blood. Yeaaaah, it was not a pleasant nest exiting.

6.) Not that there weren't forms of close quarters combat in both America and Britain during this time period, but I figure Arthur still knows more moves than Alfred, if not due to age then due to the fact he spent a lot of time in Asia where martial arts had a long tradition within cultures. Oh, and another thing: bad idea to try and take things from Arthur (including beds), wars get started over shit like that. ;) But Alfred still gets cookie points for trying.

7.) Okay...first, ya wanna read more about Canada during the Seven Years War, see KitakLaw's "After the Conqueror" (it doesn't have any official relation to my story, but if you're curious about the Seven Years War and how it ended, I have yet to find a better Hetalia fanfiction description of it). If you want to read more about the American Revolutionary War and get the references to New Jersey and Yorktown above, read my "You Were So Small". You will totally understand my version of the relationship between Francis and Arthur and Arthur and Alfred if ya do, and also see what Francis is talking about in regards to Arthur not having a whole hell of a lot to smile about. Beware, "You Were So Small" is so angsty you may go into overload and pass out.

You have been warned.

8.) Oooookay...so...time to translate my shitty French. XP Forgive me my French speaking audience...my second language is German and my French is pretty limited to some rad cursing, greetings, a few songs, and words American English stole and use on a daily basis (like _croissant_, _baguette_, _latte`_, _fillet_...uh...is anyone else seeing a pattern here?). But, according to a nifty little book I snatched up at Borders whilst writing the last section, Francis is using a French proverb basically saying "A word to the wise...to err is human" (well, the French equivalent of it). In short, he's telling Arthur his errors in the past were because he was acting like a human. You'll see this little phraseology used by the older nations a lot, referring to being emotional or screwing up as the fault of thinking/acting like a human. In my mind, Alfred and Matthew (for example) think and act more human because they feel more attached to their human characteristics and through that their people. They are also much younger than the older nations and haven't become jaded to the human ways of thinking, feeling, and attachments. Many would see this as weakness because the human mentality, let's face it, makes one more vulnerable and prone to making mistakes for the sake of the smaller picture (causing a lot of conflict with the nation mentality that sees and functions for the larger one). For the current goal of the Allies to work (the assassination of Ludwig) Francis is trying to remind Arthur that he can't let himself slip into thinking too much like a human again. XP His track record with Alfred proves he forgets himself when dealing with him, so since Alfred is likely to remain true to his characteristic human ways (after all, unlike the European nations clustered together, Alfred has only really had himself and his human leaders to build upon and teach him since breaking from England), its got to be Arthur that keeps to the mission and doesn't let feelings get in the way...XD We'll see how well THAT works out.

Okay, campers, its 11:30am and I'm off to class (Gaaaaah). :) Once again, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, sent me messages, subscribed to me, and everyone who has favorited the story. XDDD YOU ALL KEEP THE SMILES WIDE AND MY ENTHUSIASM HIGH! Much loves to you ALL! XD

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Descriptions of Gore and Violence

Chapter Nine Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter IX

_"The last time you held me..."_

It had to be the longest rail line of his life.

Alfred had always been fond of trains; in fact he absolutely loved them. When the lines connecting the East and West Coasts had finally completed the merger of his country, he had enthusiastically ridden the line for months just to see the wonders of his land passing by.

It had been one of the only joys he could remember having after the assassination of Lincoln and the end of the Civil War.

In the months following Andrew Johnson's succession of Lincoln, Alfred had been completely drained and fell in and out of states of consciousness. He was still repairing himself physically and mentally from the damage of the war, but unlike Lincoln who had done everything in his power to help, Johnson both feared and loathed the inhuman charge appointed to him by the presidency. The man made it a point to stay away from him at all costs. He had known Alfred during the war and was even present on one of the occasions the avatar broke down and lost control. He had been the strongest advocate for "containing the volatile burden" against his president's wishes...but it had been the only thing Johnson and Alfred had ever agreed on. He had been too unpredictable and dangerous, so the door was locked and the key thrown away for longer than Alfred cared to remember.

When it was all over, Lincoln was buried and Alfred - like much of his country - fell into a depressive state during the Reconstruction. It was around this time that Alfred spent his waking hours trying to catch up on what he had lost during those four years of hell.

His people amazed him. The war aside, his people had been pioneering the way in inventions and discoveries. He saw a twist drill for the first time and marveled at how it had been utilized to create marvelous machines, even commissioned for use on the incredible Transcontinental Railroad. A rotary printing press had been manufactured and put into use for the first time in Philadelphia, a city very near and dear to Alfred's heart. He couldn't believe such a thing could produce hundreds, even thousands of newspapers a day with such swift efficiency. There were even recreational things like wooden shoes with four wheels attached to the bottom, something Alfred had laughed at the first time he saw them, but had to admit they were fast and pretty fun once he wasn't landing on his ass every few minutes.

Of all the mounds of things made by the American people, however...he would have to say his favorite had been a funny-shaped wide brimmed hat the people of Texas and the West seemed to love wearing. He hadn't seen anything like it before, but the way it protected one from the sun, wind, and rain was nothing short of impressive. He would be lying if he didn't say the fashion statement wasn't a big draw to it as well.

He had traveled to the West a few times before 1861, and the stark difference between the East and the people populating the Midwest and West was mind-blowing. The cultures of his country had always been diverse, but seeing the West and comparing it to the East astonished him since it was like traveling to a whole new world on the same continent. People spoke with a perpetual drawl west of the Mississippi, a sharp contrast to the quick-tongued speed demons one found from New York to northern Virginia. While the West was wearing wide brimmed hats, hide chaps, and shirts meant for dirty work - the East was still sporting top hats, pressed trousers, and tunics better suited for an office or a factory.

Industrialization had boomed in his North, agriculture and cotton still ruled his South; his Midwest was producing more wheat and cattle than any other region, and California was bleeding gold. From coast to coast the entirety of his nation awed him; seeing it through the window of the first Transcontinental Train-ride of his life was as healing as reining up a horse and tearing off through the open plains without a care in the world. He felt decades away from Washington, from the politicians and backstabbers, from his president who hated him, and the still flammable tension between his North and South. Out here, he was whoever and whatever he wanted to be - Alfred F. Jones or the slowly reforming United States of America. He hadn't felt so alive in years.

He loved it, he loved it all! After having been imprisoned alone and in agony for so long, this freedom made him think he could fly!

That's right. He ruled the land, his seas, and someday he vowed he would take the sky. He'd fly higher than anyone else and taste freedom from above as it was meant to be tasted. He always watched eagles soar on the thermals far beyond him, and someday he promised he'd stop reaching and join them.

Freedom was everything. Freedom gave his country new life and made it grow without limits. The sky was the limit for now, but someday - who knew? He might just reach for the stars and actually catch them.

Thinking of it all...remembering his people, their inventions, his lands...he missed it. He missed all of it so much it physically ached. The echoed sadness of the men he was leaving behind resonated and made the ache stronger. He had left New York in May...it was now inching closer to September. God, he wanted to go home; God, he had never wanted to leave! It had been a while since he'd had such a stable economy, such peace among his people, and a president he actually liked and liked him in turn. He could bear dealing with affairs of state with people like Wilson in office, but he missed being among his populace the most.

He missed taking nostalgic walks through the streets of Philadelphia, seeing the old buildings and monuments of his nation's history he had been ever-present for. He longed for the rocky coasts of Maine and enjoying the shore without fear of what was on the other side of the ocean. He missed the mountains of Virginia and the beauty of its rolling hills. What he wouldn't give to be back in Georgia biting into a fresh peach beneath the sweet smelling tree that birthed it. He wanted to go riding through Texas again and enjoy the hard labor and companionable evenings under the stars. The fields of Kansas were never ending, and the deserts of Nevada were breathtaking at dawn. California was always an adventure; he wanted to see San Francisco and Los Angeles again - there was so much life in those cities! Even Washington State with its evergreen forests, full of all the flora and fauna he could ever want...he could still see the Pacific Ocean from the cliffs and wonder what worlds were beyond it.

But never be more content with his.

His heart constricted every time he thought about it...A burning sensation prickled behind his eyes and he had to remember where he was to keep the tears from falling. This war was so alien, so completely foreign and the more he remembered home the more he resented this place. There wasn't any freedom to be had here, there were no dreams alive in this forsaken land. There wasn't anyone or anything remotely close to what he remembered of his nation. The only city he had seen was Paris, full of stuck-up Parisians ignoring the zombies who shuffled by and not a single of his own cities came to mind to compare it to. The so-called forests were nothing but ashen-colored broken spears shooting up from a chalk ground, the rivers were lined with mud and ran red. Fields were a thing of the past, a No Man's Land put in their place. The people here were indeed a conglomeration, but they all spoke so many different languages; those who didn't, spoke versions of English so odd to him he barely understood it.

His country was full of unique dialects, but none came close to British-English, Canadian-English, New Zealander-English, or any other English he had encountered in this war.

The sadness of this place was overwhelming...joy was as displaced on this continent as he was.

He didn't belong here...none of his people did.

There was a sigh next to him and sky-blue eyes slowly opened as his head turned in the direction of the sound. Arthur was sitting next to him, leaning back against the same wall of the train car they'd been cooped up in for close to two days. The rocking of the locomotive had lulled Alfred to sleep hours ago, but it didn't look like it had the same affect on Arthur. The Brit had terrible black rings beneath his eyes, making him look deathlike beneath the shadow of his helmet. Neither one of them had really talked since boarding this new train after having disembarked from the last one. Between the two trucks, three convoys, and now their third and final train...Alfred was beginning to wonder if his voice would even function properly any more.

When one vehicle stopped, movement was hustled and quick in getting onto the next transport that took an incredibly long time to reach its destination. Alfred doubted they were even in France anymore. He felt like they should be halfway across Europe by now.

There weren't any windows in the car, the explanation had been that it better concealed the cargo and saved money on having to put breakable glass in every compartment. The only light and ventilation came from three overhead holes covered by raised panels. There were no seats or even benches, there were only giant canisters filled with God knew what, stacked up to almost the ceiling and held in place by their packing or thick ropes tethering them to the floor. It was hot, crowded, and smelled like rust and old smoke. There wasn't any kind of comfort here, just like everywhere else in Europe, but at least he wasn't the only person trapped in the dirt class accommodations. Neither he nor Arthur openly complained about their situation, but inside was a totally different story.

Alfred had been suffering of homesickness for days, and Arthur was just as lost in that far off stare he'd been sporting since they left Paris.

Stiffly, Alfred lifted his arm to rub the back of his neck, not particularly loving the feel of congealed sweat on his skin but he needed to work out the knot forming beneath it. Both his and Arthur's uniforms had been clean and new when they left, but by the second train they were dusty, dirty, and sweat-stained as though they'd been stuck in them for weeks. Miserable...didn't begin to describe the mood.

The silence had been grating on Alfred for miles, but the last time he had tried talking he only got noncommittal grunts and the occasional glare from his companion. Humming hadn't yielded any better results - it just earned him a smack to the back of the head that made his ears ring. He had only tried to peek inside the cargo containers of the first train once before Arthur had threatened to strap him to the roof if he didn't sit down and stop acting like a child.

It would have sparked an entertaining argument to break the monotony of the trip, but Alfred ended up relenting and going to sleep in a corner. Boredom only lasted so long before it gave way to pure listlessness. His mind escaped where his body couldn't...it was as though his being demanded it would have its freedom in one way or another. Sadly, that freedom came with a terrible price...nostalgia and heartache.

Unable to feel anything below his coccyx, Alfred grabbed his legs and pulled them up, bent at the knee and slowly tried to flex and extend his feet to return blood flow. It was pretty cramped in the car, nothing but a narrow strip between them and the first wall of containers that made an "L" shape around the right hand side of the car. Deciding it was likely better than more sitting and more silence, Alfred eventually got up and stretched out his body. He felt the pops along his spine and winced, then let his arms drop and swung them a few times. He glanced down at Arthur and couldn't even tell if the man was still staring off into space or just asleep with his eyes open.

It was Alfred's turn to sigh and he took to walking the length of their crowded little box.

In some ways this room-on-wheels kind of reminded him of the room he'd been stuck in during the Civil War. It was a room in the lower levels built beneath the White House, one in a series of strong rooms Madison had commissioned during the rebuilding of the White House after the British burnt down most of D.C. They weren't big rooms, maybe just a tad smaller than the train car, but there wasn't much to them. The one they put him in had been cleared of everything but a basic bed and bedside table, both nailed to the floor. A physician had come in every other day, though they didn't stay long since there was really nothing they could do. After a while, the census became that the doctors were only sent to help ease his boss's guilt and let Alfred know someone still cared. When he had been calm and sane enough to appreciate the gesture, he usually just laid there and let the assessment come and go. But for the most part, he had just wanted to be left alone unless said assessor was going to be kind enough to put him out of his misery.

Alfred paused in his thoughts as he stopped at the end of his path amongst the containers. Hadn't Arthur had like...three civil wars? ...He hadn't really thought about it before, but just surviving his one had nearly destroyed him; so how had Arthur come out of so many?

A shiver went down Alfred's spine and he quickly rubbed his shaking hands together. He hoped he never had another, he really didn't want to know what having more than one was like.

Pacing back the way he had come, Alfred looked back down at Arthur - still unmoved from the last time he had seen him - and stopped just beside him. He looked down at the other blond, all of his wild hair hidden by his helmet, and tried to understand what was weighing so heavily on the man that he was the quietest he'd ever seen him. He almost had the urge to tap him on his metal dome, or give him a little nudge with his boot. Right now he felt like he was accompanying a dead body to some designated burial spot in a military-approved hole.

"I'm not dead."

Alfred nearly jumped three feet in the air when Arthur suddenly spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly, like he had just woken up with a sore throat, which freaked Alfred out even more considering his words.

"Jesus Christ, are you a mind reader or something?" Alfred exclaimed, still trying to put himself back together after the fright.

Arthur didn't smile, but he did tilt his head back, eyes closed, and rested his helmet back against the side of the car. "First of all, I am not Jesus Christ. Second, I couldn't tell you whether he was psychic or not, I never met him."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the comment and gave a mock '_Ha-ha_' before shoving his hands into his pockets and looking annoyed...but still curious, "Considering you're older than dirt, I figured you'd have at least been there for the great water to wine bit. You and Francis would have loved it."

"Hm," Arthur said without feeling, still with his eyes closed. "You're hilarious, Alfred, but sorry to disappoint you," he continued, "I'm an ale and brandy kind of guy."

Alfred snorted before leaning back against one of the canisters, arms crossed and legs spread to keep his balance as the train continued to move beneath them. "At the risk of sounding like my age, when are we getting to wherever the heck it is we're going?"

Arthur sighed and eventually his eyes slid open. He almost looked like he'd been asking himself the same question and dreading the terrible answer. "Whenever this stops, I suppose...given, our fortune holds up and we're not detoured due to some disaster or another." He shrugged. "I hope we at least reach the Belgium boarder by nightfall."

Eyebrows rising, Alfred looked surprised, "Belgium?" They were going all the way to Belgium?

"...Yes, Alfred, Belgium," Arthur replied and slid his companion a drawn look. "It's a little European nation between France and Germany that boarders the Netherlands. That big bluish thing called the English Channel runs along next to it, hence why the Germans were so keen on taking it."

The scowl he received from the American was enough of a reply and Arthur sighed and closed his eyes again. "...Sorry. I forgot my promise."

Alfred didn't respond for a while, but eventually he too looked away, still frowning. "I'll say we're even since I made the '_older than dirt_' comment." It was as much of an apology as Alfred was giving.

It was a while before either of them spoke again. The _click_-_clack _of the train continued to fill the silence as the world around them passed by without their notice. Alfred had traveled outside the U.S. a few times, when it was overseas is was mostly to either France or England. He hadn't been to Belgium or Luxembourg; he couldn't even say he'd been to Germany. Of course he'd been to Canada and Mexico, Cuba and the islands, but for the most part...he was rather ignorant of Europe. He would have liked to have asked Arthur what Belgium was like, but it would just further solidify that he wasn't very geographically inclined or well-traveled.

Arthur had circumnavigated the globe; Alfred had barely traveled the western hemisphere.

Finally, Alfred decided to throw a small amount of pride to the wind and ask, "Hey, Arthur...what can we expect in-"

Alfred was abruptly cut off when Arthur's eyes flew open and his body tensed. Alfred watched him with curiosity for a moment, and suddenly Arthur was up, grabbing him, and throwing him to the floor. Alfred barely had time to breath before Arthur was on top of him and a high pitched whistling sound ended with a massive explosion outside.

The rail gave a deafening screech, gears locking and metal scraping against the track before another whistle and explosion rocked the car and the world began to tilt.

Alfred let out a scream as he and Arthur were unexpectedly pitched to the left, flipping over and slamming against the metal containers that were groaning almost as loudly as the screeching train.

The world jolted when the car hit the ground on its side, still being pulled along by the momentum of the locomotive, and Arthur remained on top of Alfred covering the other as much as he could while protecting the back of his neck with one arm. Alfred could barely see a thing through his pushed over helmet, Arthur's body, and the container he was pressed against. The weight and shock of everything was making breathing incredibly difficult, and he couldn't hear anything over the noise of another explosion and the twisting of metal.

Without warning, the ropes holding the containers in place began to snap, making the pair start to slide along the surface of the tipping crate. Alfred's heart leapt into his throat as Arthur's weight lifted from him. He snapped his head around in time to see Arthur nearly falling down the side of the panel, and immediately his arm shot out and latched on to the Brit's wrist. It was on instinct he used his other arm to grab the edge of the crate closest to him, holding on for dear life as he tried to keep himself and Arthur from sliding further and getting trapped between the container and the car.

Alfred was gritting his teeth against the strain and was jerked when the container began to slowly fall even further. The creaking ropes were stressed to the breaking point, and Alfred knew they had to get off this thing now.

Arthur was screaming something to him, but Alfred couldn't hear it before he yanked Arthur up and flung the man behind him and over the soon-to-be-bottom side of the container. The Brit was in the clear before the last rope snapped and Alfred lost his grip and went careening down the repository's surface.

Oh God, he was going to be crushed!

Falling headfirst on his back, Alfred's descent was halted when something grasped onto his ankle - but it wasn't for long. Something burst near the belly end of the train and blew the car clear from the track, detaching it from the other cars and sent it spinning.

Alfred remembered falling and the sounds of metal ripping, heavy objects blowing apart, and someone screeching his name. He hit something hard and his breath left him.

Then everything fell black and silent.

* * *

_He had to be sneaky and really stealthy. He had to summon all of his inner indigenous cunning to pull this off. It had taken a while to find the right moment for this, but now that the opportunity had arrived he just couldn't pass it up. His target was completely unsuspecting, distracted, and unarmed...all he had to do was wait for the exact second and-_

_He sprung from his perch and freefell from the highest branch of the aptly named American Elm. He had no fear of falling, it was the closest he ever got to flying, and the thrill of it was always so exciting! _

_This time, he'd even have a soft target to land on._

_The Englishman had barely a heartbeat to look up and gasp before the boy fell on him._

_The Brit hit the ground with his American charge slamming into his chest before bouncing off and sprawling out face first on the ground next to him. Had the Englishman's hand not been firmly attached to the boy's leg, he would have certainly kept on bouncing._

_While the adult was trying to remember how breathing went, the child pushed his upper torso up with his hands and vigorously shook his head. Blond hair went everywhere, but a few green leaves remained stuck. There was a grass stain now smeared across his white shirt and tan slacks, and his bare feet were covered in sap and bark from the tree. His youthful face and size pegged him at around six or seven, still a short lad, but growing a slightly lankier body than one softened by baby fat._

_Though with the wide grin spread across his face he looked like an impish four-year-old._

_Alfred twisted around in Arthur's lax grasp and beamed that smile down on the man still collapsed on the ground. Alfred didn't seem to think there was a thing wrong with the situation and happily chirped, "Hi, dad! Welcome home!"_

_Arthur was the funniest shade of blue, but Alfred just attributed it to the low lighting of the evening._

_With a cough and a less-than-enthusiastic wince, Arthur tried to speak but had to settle for a weak squeeze of Alfred's ankle as a response. Though, had he been able to get up, he would have rather liked to wring the boy's neck._

_Not only had Alfred all but crushed him, but Alfred knew Arthur wasn't all that comfortable about being called "dad". He had asked him repeatedly to just call him England or Arthur, but Alfred did whatever Alfred wanted, and there was just no changing that._

_Not even the threat of bodily harm or gravity._

"_Hey dad, wasn't that fantastic? Did you know bear cubs often do that to their mothers in the wild? ...Well, not that I think you're my mother bear or anything...Hehe, but you sure act like one sometimes, huh dad?" he continued, happy to be able to share a common American black bear ritual with his caretaker. _

_Before Arthur and his people had come, he had often spent his time alone and observing the native people and animals of his land. He liked to watch human and animal families interact, often wanting to join them but to afraid they'd stop being happy if he got to close. He was content to play with the few children who ventured too far away from their tribes or small animals curious enough to approach him. He heard from some of the small children that their people sometimes saw him and thought he was a spirit; since he hadn't really known what a spirit was he just assumed he was one and happily let the children go home to tell stories of how they played with the wild land spirit._

_The day the other kind of people had arrived...he'd been incredibly drawn to them and it frightened him. The majority of the Natives were wary of the strange ones and so he had also been wary. But something about these new people piqued his curiosity and he couldn't help himself._

_When he saw the others who didn't feel like the humans he knew, he often ran from them for fear they were the kinds of spirits the children always talked about. What if they were mean spirits, like tricksters or Iya? _

_Several times these spirits had been startled by his presence and tried to approach him, each time he ran and hid among the safety of his land._

_That was...until Arthur arrived._

_He had been spying on and evading them for years, but eventually he felt cowardly for running and decided...well...maybe meeting them wouldn't be so bad. They never ran from him, in fact they had always seemed to encourage him to come out with their strange languages and gestures. One man had even tried some very good smelling food, but he wasn't sure what to make of the cooked meat and other strange offerings so he shied away._

_Arthur hadn't tried any of that. In fact, he tried something similar to what his own Native people had tried..._

_Magic._

_He didn't have any other explanation for the power he felt in Arthur, but he liked it. It was dark and kind of scary, but Arthur looked genuinely warm and smiled at him a lot. He liked that Arthur seemed as fascinated with him as he was of the other, he also liked that Arthur hadn't tried to coax him out with anything other than what he was. He didn't overly confuse him with his strange language and he didn't try to reach out and catch him...he let _him _choose when he was ready and finally the boy decided to stay and greet this strange spirit._

_Arthur was the first person who ever held him...and he found he liked to be held very much._

_Time wasn't one of Alfred's strong suits, but he knew it'd been a really long time since he had come home to live with Arthur, and he didn't regret it for a moment. Arthur taught him his strange language, which was frustrating at first but eventually he had grasped it and made Arthur smile even more. Arthur taught him how to interpret the weird scrawl important people left on paper, and even showed him how to make that scrawl himself; Alfred felt incredibly important then, especially when Arthur gave him a name similar to his own._

_Alfred was no longer a spirit, he was real and Arthur made him that way._

_The boy cocked his head a bit in confusion and not without a tad of concern, looking at Arthur as the man looked like he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. Alfred gingerly reached over and poked his side. "Hey, dad? Are you well?"_

"_...Alfred..." Arthur slowly replied, breaths quite shallow as he stared up at the darkening sky, "...You...are not...a bear...so...please...do not act like one..."_

_Alfred blinked and cocked his head again like a little bird, still leaning over Arthur's side and looking wide-eyed and quizzical. "But dad, that's how bears say 'I love you'. It's just saying it in another language," he said with a bright smile. "See? I'm multilingual, like you!"_

_While the Englishman looked as astounded as he was annoyed with his defeat, he let out a long breath and squeezed Alfred's ankle back, letting the boy know he wasn't angry...he never really could stay angry with Alfred, no matter what. "I fear to see what you'd do if you hated me." _

_Alfred giggled and ignored Arthur's sudden yelp when he crawled on top of him and gave him a tight hug. "You're funny, dad. I could never hate you."_

_How could he? Arthur was the reason he wasn't lonely anymore. He was happy when he was with Arthur. How could anyone hate someone who made them so happy?_

_Though in terrible pain - the boy really didn't seem to know his own strength - Arthur wrapped one arm around the lad and placed his other hand on his head, gently combing out the leaved while fighting to keep steady breaths._

"_Let's hope...you remember that when you're older."_

_

* * *

_

Everything...hurt.

The first thing he noticed upon returning to consciousness had been how much his back, neck, chest, stomach, arms, legs...hell, everything meant _everything_. Something was broken, possibly several somethings, but he couldn't pinpoint anything considering how badly his nerve endings were screaming. Breathing was an issue, he guessed he had landed on his chest and something was on his back...ugh, whatever it was it was heavy.

Too heavy...way too heavy.

He groaned, still unable to open his eyes for fear of seeing something worse than he was imagining, and suddenly felt some of the weight vanishing from his back. There was the sound of something heavy and metal hitting something soft that muffled it. Someone panting and straining above him, but he couldn't figure anything else out. His brain wasn't firing on all cylinders at the moment, but eventually he deduced someone was throwing things off of him.

He still wasn't sure who that someone was or what the hell they were digging him out from under.

Groaning again, he felt some feeling other than pain returning to his hand and slowly flexed his fingers over soft soil. He knew it was soil because he could smell it...even if there was a tinge of ash and charred metal to it.

"Don't move yet, damn you!" Someone frantically whispered above him as more weight was hastily lifted.

Alfred tried to obey, but his body was desperate for movement, he needed to breathe and find out what was damaged so he could fix it. He didn't know what brought him to this state, but he remembered falling, landing, and screaming...though who had been screaming, he wasn't sure.

Finally, the last of the weight was lifted off of him and the person above him panted even harder, staggered, and fell down to his knees on the soft earth next to him. Alfred wanted to open his eyes more than to just see the green-clad knees...he wanted to move and get off his chest so it would stop hurting...but neither seemed possible in his current state. It hurt so much.

A hand reached down and quickly pressed two fingers against the side of his neck making Alfred gasp. Even the slightest touch hurt, and eventually satisfied about something, the fingers pulled away and the same hand moved to the back of his head to cradle it while the other carefully pushed against his shoulder.

Alfred immediately knew what this person was trying to do, but the only protest he managed as he was rolled over onto his back was a strangled cry before squeezing his eyes shut.

The sound seemed to startle the other person, who paused for a split second before lying Alfred down and quickly leaned over him. Alfred wished he could punch the bastard causing him so much agony, but he couldn't even unclench his eyes or jaw for fear of crying out again.

"Alfred, listen to me -"

Listen? _Listen_! God, he was _dying_! He didn't want to fucking listen!

"I know it hurts, but please try not to make any noise," the whispering continued. "I can't be sure how far away those shells were coming from, nor from whom. I will do what I can not to make it worse, but please don't make a sound." There was a pause, the person above him still trying to catch his breath while Alfred was trying not to lose his. "Do you want something to bite down on?"

No. He wanted someone to shoot him and make the pain go away, which could be accomplished if he did a little screaming. He was very tempted.

Eventually the memory of what happened returned. He remembered the train, something about wine and brandy; Arthur jumped him before the first explosion...it was all a blur after that, but he remembered more explosions and...falling.

He caught Arthur before Arthur caught him, but Arthur wasn't strong enough to hang on...

His pain-filled eyes slid open and found Arthur above him, expression wider, more alert, and more shaken then he'd ever seen it. The Englishman's helmet was drawn back, his wild hair was plastered to his forehead and face, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were more prominent than ever against his pale skin. There was a red and orange glow around him and Alfred smelled smoke. He guessed the train was on fire...but he wasn't sure how far away it was.

Alfred swallowed, terrible pangs of agony washed through him but he managed to fight to breathe a little better, eventually shaking his head. His neck hurt, but it wasn't broken which was a relief. Feeling was still painful, but present in his arms and legs which told him his spine wasn't damaged. His collar bone and ribs ached and sent stabbing pains through him with every breath; they were likely broken. He couldn't really tell what else, but he could feel the healing process starting and knew the uncomfortable sensation of tissue regenerating meant he'd ruptured something.

Since he was still _alive_, he guessed his heart and brain were still intact.

Struggling to take deeper breaths, Alfred shook his head again and closed his eyes, still working on controlling the throbbing in his chest. "You...'kay...?" He rasped, not even sure if he'd been clear enough to be understood. He wasn't sure if he'd try talking again for a while, it strained his breathing too much.

Alfred couldn't see it with his eyes, but he knew Arthur had given his half-smile and looked a mite relieved when he avoided the question and merely continued, "Better off than you, lad." He shifted his position around Alfred, "This is really going to hurt, but please remember not to move or make a sound...I'll try to have this over with soon."

Not really looking forward to more pain, Alfred swallowed again and nodded. He tried to hold in his gasp when Arthur reached over and grabbed his shoulder, drawing him up before pulling his limp arm, then the other, around his neck. Alfred ground his teeth together and was breathing harder and faster as one of Arthur's hands remained firm around both of Alfred's wrists while the other grabbed beneath one of his thighs and hauled the leg up over Arthur's green clad hip. The Englishman bent over to hoist the American higher, then with a grunt, stood and swiftly grabbed beneath Alfred's other leg to better keep his companion's larger body steady and draped over his back.

If Alfred's mind hadn't been screaming since voicing it wasn't allowed, he would have been impressed with Arthur's feat in carrying him like this.

There was heat behind him, but it was distant and Alfred continued to wonder just how far they had been thrown when the train was attacked. He didn't last long in his thinking as pain, exhaustion, and Arthur's careful, yet rapid movements drew them farther and farther away from the wreckage...and from consciousness.

His chest hurt from being pressed against something again, but Arthur's breathing slowly pulled his mind from it. He felt bad for Arthur, who was probably hurt too and being a stubborn ass about not admitting it, for having to carrying him like this...but after a time that thought faded too and the darkness began to return.

It was quiet again except for Arthur's breathing...and eventually, he slipped back to sleep.

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

WOW! Two chapters in one week? XD I haven't done that in a while! But to explain, I had chapter 8 written for a while and was slowly picking and revising it before I said "What the hell?" and sent it to the wonderful and amazing Oneechan for editing. During that time I had also been working on this chapter here, something I started in between classes and dabbled with on break at work...Finally, last night, I started fully attacking it and just couldn't stop! XD Seriously, props to my amazing Beta for putting up with the spaztalicious me; she pumped TWO chapters out in one night! I LOVE YOU ONEECHAAAAAN! XD

ON TO THE NOTES!

1.) I mentioned a while ago that you'd be seeing a lot of American history in this fic, especially history surrounding America's Civil War. The events and aftermath of the Civil War really shaped America into what it is today, and Alfred is just over 50 years post it in WWI. In country years...that's not a whole hell of a lot of time in terms of recovery. If you've ever been to the States and traveled between the North and South, you'll DEFINITELY see the STILL present and stark differences between them; to my fellow Americans, I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. Now, after our 16th president, Lincoln, was assassinated, his vice president, Andrew Johnson, took over and was in charge during the Reconstruction Era (which is what America calls the years following the Civil War where the country was trying to repair the unstable economy, areas ravaged by the war, and the trade routes that were shut down). Johnson was a southern sympathizer and a native Southerner who favored the South when he took over. This caused a lot of controversy during his years in office, especially when scandals erupted and positions of power were unfairly appointed to personal friends. Johnson was the FIRST American president to be Impeached, however his trial did NOT result in his usurpation. In this respect, I painted his and Alfred's relationship not as a good one; Johnson is considered to be around the bottom rung of the of America's favorite presidents (uh...does that not say it all?). Therefore, I imagine Alfred took a kind of hiatus away from politics and Washington for a while (since it wasn't helping with the healing process) and I can't imagine Johnson being too against it, given I peg him as someone who wouldn't get along with Alfred. SO! To show ya'll what the post-Civil War era was like, I added in the Transcontinental Railroad (which was a system of railways that connected the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of the U.S.) and some of the inventions that came about in the years during and after the war. :) Yes, roller skates and cowboy hats are all American XD, and Alfred loves them. Also, those descriptions of the States Alfred travelled to...I was so tempted to describe even more. I've traveled to 21 of the 50 beautiful States in my country, and while my heart lies in the North, I love and appreciate the beauty of ALL of my homeland with all my being. We have majestic mountains, lush forests, vast deserts, tropical wetlands, wonderful hill-lands, and some of the liveliest cities in the world. :) If you're a native or have just visited the States, I hope you appreciate America as much as I do; if you've never had the experience of America then I hope you get the chance someday. Its a beautiful place! XD Shameless representation here, people.

2.) The coccyx is the tail bone of the spine. :) Trust me, we've all felt Alfred's pain. Ever sit too long and suddenly your tushie is numb and pain pings at the very bottom of your back? Yep. That's your coccyx. XD

3.) To my knowledge there were three English Civil Wars, and sadly I don't know much more about them than that. ): I think for future chapters I might try to grab a book and read a little more information about them to see how they would have affected Arthur's behavior. If any of my U.K. readers would like to help educate me I would be ETERNALLY grateful. :)

4.) The battles Arthur and Alfred are heading for actually took place in and around the boarder of Belgium. Belgium was occupied by the Germans during WWI, and the initial invasion of the country had brought Britain officially into the war in the first place (though Britain would have likely ended up in the war anyway, pact with Belgium or not). Belgium was a key strategic area since it was full of railways, ports, and more importantly it was right next to the English Channel, which gave them access to the sea and overseas trade. One of the BIGGEST Allied goals was to shut down those ports and choke off the U-Boats coming from them; they also wanted to stop the supplies from coming in. The problem most faced by the Allies was the fact that the routes into Belgium were heavily guarded and lined with ridges - ridges held by the Germans who used the high grounds and pelted the Allies from above. In short..."control the ridges, control the entrances to Belgium". Sadly, this cost hundreds of thousands of lives on both sides.

5.) Railway travel was THE way to get around at this time period, and during WWI - while it was the fastest way to carry large amounts of troops and supplies - trains were some of THE number one targets for both sides. It was always risky taking a train, but in a situation where speed was everything, there just wasn't much choice. For poor Alfred and Arthur...well, that's what happens when you go blaspheming God. :) Good job, boys!

6.) The "Trickster" spirits and "Iya" are common in Native American folk lore. By most religious standards they would be considered "evil", but this was not so in Native American lore. Spirits were neither truly good or evil, spirits were the essences of nature and the world that dwelt on both plains of existence and influenced them. Tricksters are wily and mischievous, they seek to teach lessons whether it means making one's life miserable or not. Iya is a deity-like spirit that's depicted in a number of tribal cultures as either a storm god, hunter of humans and the land, ECT. Spirits in Native American culture can be feared, but always respected. It is my belief that before the arrival of the Europeans, Alfred would have likely taken on the customs and understandings of his native people and likely been mistaken for being a spirit. Also, since English wasn't introduced until...well...the English arrived, Alfred would not have known a European language until formally taught. Oh, back to America: Native Americans also believe/believed in rituals and magic, but not the conventional kind you see in like...tales of _Merlin_ or _Harry Potter._ A good example to look up would be the novel _Ceremony_ by Leslie Marmon Silko, FANTASTIC book. :) By the way...the first official English settlement in America was Jamestown, Virginia...so I picture the flashback scene to have taken place around there. XD

7.) YAY, its Alfred that's ALL messed up this time instead of Arthur! Gotta love it. Don't worry, he'll heal faster than Arthur for a number of reasons: A. Alfred is fresh in Europe and still pretty energized considering he hadn't left his home soil all that long ago; B. Alfred hasn't taken all that many hits since the start of his involvement with the war (which is pretty much Arthur Boot Camp and now); and finally C. Alfred will have the chance for a brief nap at Arthur's expense, and people naturally heal faster when they sleep (scientific fact, dudes - why do you think the doc is always saying "get some rest", HE'S SERIOUS!). :) In my mind, nations also heal faster when they've had sleep/rest, so fear not, Alfred will be back to being Alfred before ya know it!

8.) Last one, PROMISE! If it hasn't been noted by now, the focus of each chapter differs in its narrative perspective. :) I like the third person limited style, giving readers a real time view while also letting them into the characters' heads. I've been bouncing back and forth between Arthur and Alfred depending upon who I feel best depicts a scene. For the most part, Arthur has been dominating this role (let's face it, when it comes down to these two, its kind of Arthur's war), but there have been a few more Alfred-centric chapters. X3 What can I say? I love 'em both too much to shut either of them up.

:D Hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter! I had so much fun writing it, and now that its done I'll have to try working on chapter 10 in between the...*sweatdrop* 4 other papers, two presentations, and multiple modules I have to do...*sigh* This sucks...Alrighty campers, as always I thank my readers, reviewers, subscribers, and favoriters and reiterate that YOU ALL ROCK AND KEEP THE UPDATES COMIN'! XD Till chapter 10, SEE YA!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

****WARNING****: Strong Language, Very Graphic Scenes, Bloodshed, Gore and Extreme Violence [_This is a special warning for this chapter as it is very dark and graphic. There is no sugarcoating of the battle scene depicted here; there is no shying from the realism once so ever. If you are the faint of heart, squeamish, or just prefer not to read graphic depictions of violence, please message me and I will be more than happy to give you a censored summary of the chapter's main points so you don't get lost in the current or coming chapters. I will not be offended if you decide to take the summary route. Please take this warning seriously as I do not want to upset or offend anyone following the story. Otherwise, please read on and enjoy_.]

Chapter Ten Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter X

"_I can never escape."_

_The only thing he could think about was how much his right side burned. The muscles were strained and inflamed, his skin felt too tight and stifling over his old wound. He knew he had seriously reinjured the site when he collided with the side of the repository; he also knew the twisted metal pipe he had pulled out of his leg had left the appendage badly damaged. Thankfully his femur had been spared from breaking, but the quadriceps had been skewered clean through and bled heavily._

_He had feared that his femoral artery had been ruptured, but since he hadn't bled to death he thanked God it had been missed._

_He was bruised, bleeding worst from his leg and best from the lacerations on his face and arms. But overall he had been spared the brunt of the injuries thanks to having been thrown clear of the train, via the hole made by the final explosion._

_Alfred...hadn't been so lucky._

_Arthur wasn't sure how long he'd been out when he hit the ground, but when he came to it had been to the explosion of the engine car more than 5 kilometers to the north...or at least what he assumed was the north as that had been the direction they had been traveling in. Even from this distance the explosion had been intense enough to rouse him, given the landscape was a desolate wasteland with nothing to muffle the sound or shield him from the falling debris. He also vaguely thought he heard a plane, but he couldn't be sure with his ears ringing so badly._

_When he got his bearings and realized he had a metal pipe in his leg, it didn't take him long after he'd yanked the thing out to really wake up._

_It had taken all his willpower not to scream and several minutes more to slow his breathing down and reopen his eyes. Immediately he had begun to scan the field for Alfred. When he couldn't find his American companion he felt panic rising in his chest; he didn't even want to imagine the reasons for Alfred's disappearance as he forced himself up and back in the direction of the wreck._

_What had been less than five or so minutes had felt like hours. By the time he saw a pale hand beneath the massive iron panel...he thought his heart had abandoned him._

_He didn't remember when he got to Alfred's position, he didn't even remember grabbing the first metal sheet and throwing it off. He wasn't sure how he managed to keep standing with his leg oozing blood or even how he had ignored his throbbing side and lack of breath while he was commanding Alfred to remain still (though inside he was begging him to move and say something)._

_Fear choked him at how incredibly unresponsive Alfred had been. When Alfred had been younger he had been an endless ball of energy; even in his deepest sleeps he would still fidget and squirm, and a few times a single kick from the lad had knocked Arthur clean off the bed. The Alfred lying before him now was barely breathing, let alone the same pain in the arse he'd reared centuries ago. The feeling of gut-wrenching fear compounded when he removed the last of the debris and found the back of the American's uniform stained thick with blood._

_In the firelight cast off by the wreck, he could see that it was dark blood...the kind released by vital organs._

_He had fallen to his knees upon seeing it, his heart seized and he couldn't stop himself from shaking. The back of the tunic wasn't ripped, but it was clear something had opened the skin to make it bleed. Given the weight of the rubble he'd pulled off of Alfred's prone body, Arthur wouldn't be surprised if the skin had split upon impact. As for the near-black blood...he bet shattered bone meeting soft tissue had been the cause of it. Alfred was still unmoving and silent. Automatically his hand shot forward and searched for a pulse in his neck. The American's expression became pained and the fluttering of a pulse reassured him that Alfred hadn't experienced his first death...not yet at least._

_That didn't stop his chest from constricting when Alfred cried out in pain upon rolling him over; it didn't get any better when the first words out of Alfred's mouth had been asking about his mentor's condition rather than worrying about his own. Bloody git..._

_There was no telling where those who had attacked the train had come from, and he didn't know if it had been friendly fire or enemy fire. There had been no doubt that whoever it was had been using high-impact shells, explosives strong enough to destroy a train like that. He knew that if their attackers were close then they had to keep quiet and more. Another thing he knew was that Alfred was hurt, badly so, and while he wasn't much better off he was still the only one vaguely mobile._

_He had to get Alfred away from this area before their attackers arrived to survey the damage. Even if Alfred survived his injuries, Arthur doubted he would survive a possible German assault in this condition._

_But by the knickers of St. George, when had Alfred gotten so bloody heavy?_

_Initially, just getting Alfred into position to be carried was painful for both of them, and then standing had been sheer agony on Arthur's injured leg and side. His American companion was pure dead weight on his back and it made the Brit stumble a few times before he picked up a steady pace and managed to move them as far from the scene as he could. While he doubted he had made it even half a kilometer, he found an old crater made by a mortar that was deep enough to conceal them for the time being._

_It wasn't ideal...but considering how exhausted Arthur was and how injured they both were, it would have to do._

_

* * *

_

Arthur was currently slumped against the side of the crater, Alfred next to him on his back and slightly propped up on the dirt. Arthur would have rather rested Alfred on his side to take pressure off his back, but with Alfred's breathing as precarious as it was he knew being inclined was best for his struggling lungs. Alfred looked incredibly pale and Arthur knew keeping him awake and alert would have been what any human medic would have done...but Alfred wasn't human. For nations, they healed best when asleep and withdrawn from conflict. Arthur was healing incredibly slowly; he could feel his leg mending but it was nowhere near an acceptable speed for a nation of his age and strength. He would have loved to have slept and woken refreshed and repaired, but he couldn't risk leaving Alfred unguarded with possible Germans so close.

Arthur let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, letting his head thump back against the dirt wall as he tried to decide what to do. He could stay here and hold vigil over Alfred and hope he would pull through, considering the extent of his injuries. Given Arthur's own injuries, stay would have been a wise choice...but that left them unarmed and unguarded and that was unacceptable. Neither Alfred nor Arthur had been wearing their gear packs when the train had been attacked, and other than the items on their belts and weapons holstered on their person, they had nothing to defend themselves with. He didn't want to leave Alfred, but they had to at least have rifles before they attempted moving on towards the destination their train would never see.

He had his revolver, two No. 5's, knuckle dusters in the pouch on his belt and a trench knife sheathed on his back; but it would never be enough without a rifle.

He had to go back to the train. He didn't have a choice.

The Englishman felt his stomach tighten, but quickly ignored it and focused on treating Alfred as best he could. Alfred still had a med pack on the back of his belt, and Arthur had removed it before setting him up against the crater. Arthur made quick work of removing the belts, bracers, and tunic on Alfred's upper torso...a torso so stained with bruises his skin looked almost indigo. Arthur had to close his eyes and take a breath before angling Alfred's body enough to see the wound on his back.

He winced upon seeing the rift that nearly ran the length of Alfred's spine, and swallowed before tearing his eyes away to rifling through the med kit.

Making short yet efficient work of the patch job, Arthur stitched and padded the wound as much as he was able with the meager provisions. He tugged Alfred's uniform back on and rewrapped his belts, though not tightly...he didn't want to cause any further discomfort. He was grateful Alfred had been completely unconscious for the entire process, especially the stitching. He didn't want to have to deal with a vocal and difficult patient whilst wielding a needle; since he had given Alfred stitches before while he'd been alert and oriented, he could confidently say that he would not have taken it well. He knew when Alfred woke up he'd be complaining his bloody ear off, stitches in that area were _not_ comfortable for anyone, but right now Arthur would be grateful for even a single note of bitching.

The Alfred he leaned back against the dirt crater was not the Alfred he knew, and it frightened him. He hadn't seen him so...so unlike himself since the War of 1812, and before that his condition during the Revolution-...

_Focus_. He had to focus.

With Alfred as settled as he could make him, Arthur took the last of the gauze wrapping and tie off his still-bleeding leg. That done, Arthur forced himself to turn his head from Alfred and climb out of the pit.

The terrain looked like much of France at the moment - a bloody lunar surface. Potholes covered the chalky soil and nothing stood on the open ground. There was no cover out here, which made traversing it very dangerous. Thankfully this area looked like an old battlefield, as most of the war had moved north and east. The rail that ran through here had been considered as safe as anything could be in Europe at this time, which was why they had taken it en route to Belgium. Arthur had no idea why anyone had remained in this desolate place, but he knew it should have still been behind Allied lines, as the train was only to take them as far as the Allies protected.

The Hindenburg had once been pretty deep into France, but as the Allies had progressively pushed the German line back the Allied hold should have been in control this area. So how the hell had they been attacked? ...Had the line moved again so quickly?

Arthur kept his revolver in his right hand and alternated between moving fast and low over the ground to halting in a crouch on one knee. He had to go down on his left leg since his right was still flaring with pain and bleeding; though he knew the bleeding had lessened and the wound was clotting, the pain was still horrid. He knew he was really pushing himself to his limit, but he had a mission to accomplish and needed to get back to Alfred as soon as possible.

The urge to turn around and head back right then and there was strong, but he had to get those rifles!

The heat of the fire was still strong enough to be felt from a distance, and seeing the extent of the damage as he approached the scene was humbling. The cars were either upturned along the track or completely obliterated, the scattered remains of which were spread out for kilometers to the north and south. The car he and Alfred had been riding in had been blown clear of the others and rested in a shredded heap yards away. Arthur really couldn't believe they had survived that...he also couldn't believe what had been inside those repositories the entire time.

In the firelight, the glint of fresh rifle barrels spilt from the ruptured containers made Arthur's jaw gape. Dear God, they had been riding in an armory transport!

Now Arthur had a new fear dawning upon him, and simply not getting shot at and returning with a few rifle seemed like the least of his worries.

Very few commercial trains were braving the rails between Paris and Belgium, but the military lines were still running supplies to the Allied front. Arthur hadn't inspected the train's cargo when he and Alfred boarded it, he had only relayed orders from Field Marshall Haig that they be allowed to travel the fastest means necessary to the Passchendaele area. No one questioned the strange request and Arthur never elaborated. He and Alfred hac just picked a car and held on for the ride.

Who knew they'd pick the most explosive and precious bloody transport of them all?

Hoping the fires had already discharged the majority of whatever munitions had been on board, Arthur had to keep himself moving forward to the car closest to him - one not in danger from the fire and still enclosed, completely on its head alongside the rail. He quickly pressed himself against the rusted surface and paused, trying to breathe slowly and listen for noises beyond the crackling fire around him. Any pops from overheated bullets or explosives would have been his cue to get the hell back to a crater and wait for things to calm down, but considering the payload naked and unclaimed all over the bloody ground he couldn't abandon it.

If it really was the enemy who had destroyed the train, then he couldn't let them collect the spoils and turn Allied arms against his people.

He took a few more breaths; easily calming himself as he entered into a mode where the objective was defined and executing the means towards it were nearly mechanical. Anyone, himself included, would have suspected anyone riding the train had been killed either in the initial explosions or the aftermath. Arthur knew that if he and Alfred had been human they wouldn't have disappointed this logic, but given they were nations...well, they had a chance at spitting in the eye of logic.

After a few minutes he heard it, both what he feared and expected.

German. The men approaching were speaking German.

At first he had only heard rapid steps approaching from somewhere far behind the car he was pressed against. The sound of heavy gear-packs jostling against rapidly moving bodies was getting louder, and more than a few bolts being pulled back and released made him tighten his grip on the revolver. The quick march seemed to putter out and silence reigned for a moment before someone kicked some debris across the ground.

"_Der Luftstreik hat funktioniert_!" A man commented, accompanied by a few nervous chuckles from various positions.

"_Ruhe! Nicht so langsam_!" A sharp voice barked, making some shift uncomfortably from the sounds of it. "_Ausführung_!"

A chorus of "_Zu Befehl_!" and "_Jawohl_!" rose up in unison behind him, and Arthur took an estimate that there had to be at least eight or so...possibly more, but definitely no less than six.

The Englishman remained frozen in his position against the car, sticking to the shadows cast off by the firelight as his green eyes remained locked in the direction he heard the majority of the voices. He hadn't really understood everything said, his German was incredibly limited, but his thoughts quickly turned from trying to decipher the foreign language to pressing tighter against the car as the first held rifle came into view.

A Gewehr 98 Mauser was held tightly in the hands of the first German soldier that graced his vision some ten or so yards away. The soldier's uniform was a darker shade of green than his own; his helmet more bowl shaped and came down lower over the sides of his face than the British version. The cuffs of the sleeves were larger and rolled higher on the forearms, the pants slightly baggier and tucked into tall black boots. The utility belt was similar to the Allied equivalent, but there was no gas mask hanging from the back or a med pack next to it. Arthur caught the flash of a large knife handle sheathed down from the back of the soldier's hip, and as the man passed him by he also found a secondary knife sheathed along his right leg.

The soldier was heading away from him and towards one of the busted repositories to his left; it wasn't long before several more Germans followed suit, Arthur counted seven in all now gathering approximately thirty yards from him.

Seven rifle toting Germans verses the injured personification of the British Empire, armed only with a six shot revolver.

It was anyone's game as far as Arthur was concerned.

About three Germans clustered around the overturned containers bleeding rifles, the others were quickly going through the cars down the line and excavating one shell after another. There seemed to be a kind of system going on as each time a scout exited a car they shouted what Arthur recognized as numbers. He wasn't sure what they were counting off, but someone was winding up what sounded like a radio behind his cover.

Who the hell were they contacting this far into France?

Suddenly, the smell of heavy tobacco clouded his senses when the wind shifted. Arthur had to hold his breath to keep from choking at the unexpected addition to the air, and froze again when another man came into view and stopped just at the end of his car to take another draw on his cigarette. He was close enough Arthur could have nearly grasped him at arm's length; if the man turned around, he'd see the Brit for sure...then all hell would break loose.

Arthur was now very certain that the seven Germans maneuvering about the wreckage were not the only ones here...but as to how many more he couldn't see, he didn't know.

Damn it.

The German near him took one last draw of the roll before dropping it on the ground and crushing it into the dirt. He shouted something to someone beyond Arthur's scope and turned to head away from the end of the car-

Towards Arthur.

The Englishman didn't waste any time. The second the German turned and lifted his head, Arthur had holstered his gun, whipped out his knife, grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him forward into the blade.

The man's expression was startled, wide hazel eyes were frantic and confused until Arthur angled the blade embedded in his sternum up and watched the light shudder and die in his eyes. Arthur let the body fall into him as he quickly tightened his grip on the collar and slowly eased the corpse down. It had been quick and silent, the point of using the blade rather than the gun. The Englishman drug the body further into the shadows before reclaiming his place against the car.

He barely noticed the warm fluid dripping from his hand.

Looking back out, no one seemed to have noticed the absence of his comrade. Whatever the man had said before making his fatal mistake must have satisfied them that he'd be gone for a while...maybe to take care of some bodily functions, who knew. Arthur wiped the blade along the side of his pants before re-sheathing it and unholstering the revolver once more.

Suddenly, Arthur felt the car behind him shake. He tensed and his head shot up at the sound of someone banging on the other side of the overturned car. There was some grunting followed by loud shouting, footsteps rapidly approached before two voices began a countdown, and on "_drei_" the car shook again to the sounds of metal scraping on metal that made Arthur grind his teeth.

Someone climbed into the now open car and Arthur immediately crouched low, eyeing his side of the upside-down door behind him. Hopefully no one got the urge to open it or he'd be royally screwed. Heavy boot-steps in the coach at his back made his heart race and sweat pour down his face. It wasn't until someone laughed and then leapt out on the other side that he relaxed enough to move to the opposite end of his cover and peek around the corner.

He crept along the panel and stopped just far enough to see the large box the soldier had retrieved from the car. His eyes widened, he didn't have to wait for them to open the hay filled box to know what was inside.

Grenades; judging by the pleased expressions, there were plenty more to be had inside.

Arthur couldn't allow this. Not only would these Germans now have Allied rifles, but explosives as well. There might still be ammo and other provisions that hadn't been destroyed in the attack, and the thought of the enemy walking away with such a bounty to turn on his side was beyond incomprehensible. There was the sound of a vehicle approaching, the loud motor from the machine beyond his view rumbled as a new set of voices greeted the other Germans. Someone grabbed the crate of grenades and started towards whoever had come. They were going to transport what they could back to wherever it was they came from.

He had to do something!

Arthur paused only a moment before suddenly rushing back to his original position by the car, straight to the soldier's body he'd hidden. Intentionally keeping his eyes away from the man's face, Arthur immediately began to search him and procured the specific items he sought. Arthur took the man's Luger P08 pistol, slung his Mauzer rifle over his shoulder, and grasped the handle of the main item of destruction he'd been hunting for. The man had only been carrying one, but one was enough.

Pushing himself up, locking his jaw as pain shot through his injured leg, Arthur swiftly moved as close as he could to the end of his cover in the direction of the armory car - eyeing the congregation of soldiers moving armfuls of munitions into a mound by the first spilt container. Someone on the other side of the tracks shouted a command and everyone turned towards him, then four more Germans added to the four now congregating around the mound of weapons.

Arthur unscrewed the cap at the bottom of the handle and grasped the cord that fell out. He wouldn't be able to count on shrapnel from this, but he didn't need it. The explosion alone should be enough to kill a good number, if not all of the soldiers, and create enough deadly discharges from the rifles he was about to sacrifice to finish off the rest.

He counted to three in his head, waiting for the tightest cluster of bodies before yanking the cord, throwing his arm back and then launching the stick grenade.

Someone looked up, not recognizing the flying device until the last moment, and his scream was swallowed up by the loud explosion that ripped the night, followed by the pops of wild gunfire.

Arthur, who had been crouched with his head turned away, looked back to see a heavy plumage of black smoke billowing from the center of the blast, ringed by haphazardly thrown rifles and bodies either still or flailing. There were frantic shouts and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, someone shrieking out frantic orders while bolts were drawn back and rifles being drawn up and armed. The Englishman grasped a rung of the upside-down half ladder and proceeded to scale it, trying to ignore his leg as he ascended and hauled himself up and over the top of the car.

In an ideal situation he would have taken to hiding atop a car further down the tracks (preferably _not_ filled with grenades), but since he would have risked being seen he had little choice but this one closer to his targets. Arthur knew he couldn't have outrun the Germans anyway, not in his condition, so this was it and it was pointless bemoaning it.

While the Germans were scurrying over the ground, searching for where the grenade had been thrown from as a few braver soldiers rushed to their fallen comrades, Arthur held on to the train axels and swiftly lowered himself to settle down onto the coach's belly. He kept himself in a crouch, feet spread wide over the gears as he imagined where would be the best place to start while unslinging the rifle and chambering a round. He knew there was still a number of Germans on the side of the tracks opposite his original position; he also knew there was a vehicle of some kind around there. If possible, he hoped to keep from damaging the vehicle...it might be his and Alfred's ticket out of here.

A sudden shout from right below startled him, and he soon realized someone had taken cover on the opposite side of the car from where he'd been hiding. Arthur slowly crawled to the railing closest to where he heard the German's voice and peered over the edge...rifle aiming down.

The man never knew the bullet that ended his life.

The loud bang of the rifle and the collapse of the German had several soldiers turning towards Arthur's position. Arthur took little time examining the various debris piles they had taken refuge behind before he used the last of his element of surprise to sight down and pull the trigger on two more soldiers.

A bullet struck the metal railing next to his head and Arthur immediately ducked down as more followed. His stealth sniping was over, but he was still at a somewhat advantage as he had the high ground and a low barrier shielding him from the gunfire. Provided he didn't pop up like a carnival duck (or Alfred), he'd be spared from the hail of bullets.

But God damn it, he couldn't get a shot in edge wise with his body pressed to the deck!

More bullets pinged against the metal surrounding him and even more went wild over his head. The man issuing orders before was back to doing so and he heard the thumping of boots getting closer while others kept up cover fire. Were he not so concerned about setting off the volatile cargo below him and not knowing his enemies positions, he would have pitched a No. 5 over the side and returned fire in the confusion. As it was, he was banking on the Germans' keeping their bombs to themselves for fear of the same reasons.

How frustrating!

The sudden shake of the car was his first alert that someone had managed to round the coach; the second was the sound of hands grasping the ladder and climbing up. Arthur rolled over onto his back, dropping the rifle and cleared his revolver of its holster before aiming the pistol in the direction of the German ascending to his position.

The minute he saw blue eyes he pulled the trigger and saw the blood spray before the sound of the body dropped back to earth.

Holstering the revolver, he grabbed the rifle again and counted to three before rolling back onto his stomach and barely rising up to his knees. He only had a second before he was forced to drop again as bullets ripped through the air, but now he had a better mental picture of the field.

Two Germans were taking cover behind an overturned car no more than ten or so yards from him while another pair -about 5 yards to their right- was behind a mound of shredded metal, still winding up a radio, and shouting back to the man barking out orders in German - the majority of which were "_Feuer Frei_!" That one, Arthur was very familiar with.

Germany had screamed it moments before German machine guns had leveled his men at Somme.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he pulled a grenade from his belt, hooking his finger around the trigger pin before pulling it, holding onto the silver lever tightly. He now knew he could throw this far enough and be safe from compromising the cargo beneath him. Besides...Arthur wasn't about to take another German bullet to the head.

_One_-

Another shot pinged off the railing.

_Two_-

He released the lever and his stomach tightened.

_THREE_!

Arthur bolted up and pitched the grenade as far as he could, dropping back behind his cover as a bullet grazed the side of his jaw.

"_GRENATE_!" The officer shrieked before the resounding explosion consumed him.

Dirt and metal shredded the air and the pellets that rained down went far enough to cover Arthur with burning hot bits of shrapnel and sand. The Brit had one arm covering the back of his neck as the other pressed against the right side of his face. Warm wetness spilled through his fingers while he screwed his eyes tightly shut as the last of the explosion's aftermath continued falling.

Pulling his hands away from his neck and face, Arthur wasted no time in grabbing his rifle and rising from his prone position. He leveled the weapon, sighted down the barrel and surveyed the field.

...Aside from the settling debris, nothing moved.

Arthur's eyes moved swiftly over the landscape, rifle still raised and ready to fire as he took in the damage. It seemed as though the grenade had landed on the right side of the overturned car and killed both men hiding behind it. Blood and gore littered the ground he could see, and turning to the pair who had been hiding behind the rubble not far away yielded a detached and mangled leg peering out from behind mound...the radio and other man nowhere to be seen.

The Englishman held his position for several minutes, listening to the fire still crackling along the tracks and his own paced breathing. Finally, he rose from his upright crouch and stood, his right leg protesting the entire way. He felt something fall onto his lapel and he looked down to see blood splattering his uniform.

Oh...right...his jaw.

He reached up with an already bloodstained hand and felt along the several centimeter deep gash running the underside of his jaw. The skin wasn't bad enough to need stitches, he guessed, but it was still bleeding pretty steadily and turning areas of his green uniform black...which was fine with him.

If he was bleeding, then his heart was still beating.

Arthur turned to head back towards the ladder when a man suddenly surprised him with a rifle aimed at his chest.

Arthur couldn't stop himself from staring in wide-eyed amazement as the blood-covered German kept the rifle level with his sternum, shaking hands barely keeping the weapon steady as the soldier met Arthur's surprised expression with a wild one. The moment seemed to stretch for eternity as the German struggled to pull the trigger. The Englishman finally snapped out of his daze and slowly began to raise his unarmed hand before the startled soldier suddenly screamed and leapt forward, plunging the bayonet at the end of his rifle high into Arthur's stomach.

Green eyes widened, disbelief struck him before instinct took over and he dropped his own rifle to grab the barrel of the German's; he had to prevent the German from ripping the bayonet out in a way that took his insides with it. Immediately, Arthur pushed the shell-shocked German's blade from his gut and used his continued grip on the barrel to throw the soldier to the deck, the man landing hard atop the gears. Fiery pain consumed Arthur's midsection, spreading out from his bleeding stomach as he pressed one hand to his wound and unholstered his revolver with the other.

Now it was Arthur who stood above the German, pistol raised and expression between pained and furious.

But like the German...he couldn't pull the trigger.

The soldier staring up at him with wide-eyed fear couldn't have been any more than fifteen or sixteen. His eyes were light blue and his hair was blond and hanging wildly from beneath his helm. His skin was very pale, both from fear and what Arthur guessed was his natural skin color. His face was smattered with blood from what appeared to be cast off, the front of his uniform was soaked and his body was trembling like a leaf beneath it. He looked...so scared...

He looked...so small.

"_N-Nein_..._b_-_bitte_..."

Arthur's heart seized and he swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to lower the gun, but he couldn't bring himself to fire any more than he could tear his eyes away from the boy. God, he was young! What was he doing here? Kids weren't supposed to be fighting adult wars. Kids weren't suppose to be traveling No Man's Land and accompanying raiding parties; they were supposed to be home, safe from the God damn reason their fathers picked up a rifle and left without a word.

Once upon a time it had been one of the main reasons he had done it; whether history agreed with him or not, protecting his sons meant a great deal to him.

"_B-bitte_..."

He knew that word. God how he wished he didn't.

More blood continued to pour from between his fingers clutching his stomach, but he remained standing and never lowered the gun. "...Why are you here? This...this isn't...the seventeenth century...anymore..."

The minimum age for this man's army was seventeen...apparently, men in charge felt seventeen was a good enough age to die.

The boy looked even more startled, as though Arthur had both surprised him and just caught him in a lie. He was breathing fast and gulped down a mouth full of air before looking from the gun back to Arthur, "L...lied...to...be..._Soldat_."

Arthur felt a wash of sorrow before anger filled him and he couldn't restrain himself from shouting, "You bloody fool! You wanted this? You bloody wanted this!" The boy winced and seemed to be struggling to rapidly decipher the words, as Arthur kept raging, "Is it everything you hoped for? Is being a soldier all you bloody wanted? You shouldn't be here; you shouldn't be anywhere near here! You could have died-!"

The last of his words were met with silence as they began to sink in. He was the enemy, he was a German...he was a kid with grand delusions and a gun...and Arthur was...scolding him that he might have died?

Arthur's face and arm fell ever so slightly.

He was a kid...just a kid...but how many men had he killed since falsifying his age to join the war effort for his country? How many times had he been in Arthur's position with his gun pointed down at another pleading enemy's head? How many others had he run through with his bayonet and left for dead as he raced to rejoin his unit? ...A unit Arthur had now demolished before his eyes...

How many times had Arthur killed friends and loved ones before another's eyes? How many ambitious young heroes had he killed being the perfect imperialistic villain?

The revolver now hung in his hand at his side. Green eyes softened as he looked down at the young face beneath him and finally he had to close them to block out the image.

Even behind closed eyes he couldn't escape it. The image only paired with another and he couldn't expel either from his mind.

When Arthur finally reopened his eyes, he met the still frightened boy's again with a more resigned expression on his face. He felt woozy and light-headed; he knew the blood loss was getting to him even though he felt his body leeching energy to repair the damage. He needed to rest soon or he'd fall on the spot..."Do you speak English?" He asked, his tone lower and softer than before.

The boy swallowed again and eventually nodded his head, "L-little."

"...How did your unit get here behind Allied lines?" Arthur continued.

The boy's expression became tight, like he was struggling with something in his head, but he eyed the revolver in the Englishman's hand and choked back a shuddered sob. He was alone and beyond saving and he knew it. "T-tunnels...f-from..._rückzug_," He struggled with the word in English, but eventually found it, "before with-withdraw..."

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed and he blinked a few times as he spread his feet wider to steady himself. Tunnels? What was he talking about? ...Tunnels...

-Tunnels!

The thought struck him like lightning as he pieced it together. Since the start of the near-constant stalemates on No Man's Land, the Allies had begun to dig tunnels under the death fields to connect to the other side of the line and surprise their foes. It took months to build most; some had been started back in 1915 and were still being worked on. Intelligence reports had said that the Germans had picked up on the practice as well, but it was near impossible to find the tunnels let alone the network. No one had any idea how expansive it was or how far along the system had come. Some of the few recovered prisoners of war had reported that the Germans were importing captured Russians, Slavs, and even Italians to help build these tunnels, but as none of the prisoners had been told where they were at the time so none had been able to give exact locations of the entrances. If there was one nearby, then it must have been built before the line was pushed back and the Germans had been forced to abandon it.

Apparently, however, it was still active.

"Where is the tunnel? How far does it go, where does it connect to?" Arthur all but demanded in his excited state. He had to find this tunnel; it might be the best way to get to Langemarck without having to traverse the open landscape.

Flustered by Arthur's sudden intensity, the boy looked pained as he tried to decipher the Englishman's language and formulate an answer in the appropriate way. "_W_-_wo_?" He breathed, very conflicted again and eyeing the Brit and the gun. It wasn't pointed at him at the moment, but he knew that could change in a second...Still, he didn't want to betray his people...people who were lying dead around him.

Arthur seemed to sense his reluctance and tightened his grip on the revolver. He knew he wouldn't use it unless the boy pulled another weapon and tried to finish what he started, but the threat was there and he hoped it would sway him in favor of speaking and give him the information he needed. "_Ja_, _wo_?"

Surprised by the use of his native language on an English tongue, the boy bit his lower lip and slowly reached down to his boot.

Arthur pulled the gun up so fast the boy immediately threw his hands up and began yelling in German, showing unarmed hands, wide eyes, and saying "_Es ist kein Gewehr_! _Es ist kein Gewehr_!"

"Don't move!" Arthur commanded, his body tensing and his wounds screaming bloody murder as he caught his breath. He was losing steam and desperately needed to rest, but not until he got what he needed and for that he needed this boy.

Moving forward, making the kid jump, Arthur kept the gun trained on him as he reached down to where the boy's hand had been moving. He quickly let go of his stomach to unsheathe the concealed blade he had seen on the other soldier before; he tossed the offending weapon over the side of the car and then reached into the side of the boy's boot where he found a cloth like map.

Keeping his hands up and frozen in place, the boy didn't move as Arthur withdrew the map with the gun still level. He may not have wanted to kill the kid, but if it were between his life (that affected so many more) and his enemy's...he'd pull the trigger and deal with the guilt later. He let that be known with his eyes before looking back at the map...

He sighed. It was all written in German.

"Point to where we are," Arthur ordered, turning the map as best he could with one hand so the boy could see it.

Blue eyes turned down towards the topography on the sheet and he quickly pointed to the region just south east of Arras where a number of hand-drawn red lines intersected.

Arthur's eyes widened. The fighting north of Arras had been where he'd been pulled from to return to Paris to meet with his commander and the incoming Americans. The battle for the city of Arras was the last time he'd been with his men, making a stand against the Germans holding the high ground. Farther north was Vimy Ridge, where Matthew and his Canadian troops had taken the critical point from the Germans in one of the most successful operations of the entire war. Arthur had been incredibly proud of the young man and the subjects of his dominion...

He wondered if the lad was still there...

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Arthur felt a new resurgence of pain in his leg and stomach from having been crouched for too long. He stood and backed away from the boy, grunting and trying to suppress more evidence of his weakness as he kept the gun level. He couldn't do this any longer; he had to return to Alfred and...rest...

Blackness clouded his vision before he quickly shook his head again, blinking rapidly to clear the bleariness before he saw the boy's hands dropping slightly and his eyes going right to his bleeding stomach. He looked in awe for a moment, then confused as his eyes traveled back up to Arthur's face.

The Englishman's expression was blank. The silent question had passed from the boy and he returned no answer with his eyes or anything else.

_How are you still standing, let alone alive, with a wound like that?_

"...Stand up and slowly make your way back to the ladder. I need to go somewhere and you're coming with me."

The young man looked panicked for a moment, but Arthur hushed his protests with a look and stepped back so he could stand easier, "_Ich werde nicht schießen_...provided you cooperate. _Verstehen Sie_?"

Arthur wasn't sure if he had worded everything correctly, given he didn't normally hear the Germans he had met saying they "wouldn't shoot". However, he figured he'd gotten his point across when the slightly relieved boy nodded and hesitantly rose to his feet. He was still shaking, both with fear and excess adrenaline, and kept his eyes on Arthur as he made his way to the ladder with his arms raised.

Arthur motioned with the gun for him to descend before following. When the German swung his leg over the side and stepped down to grab the first rung, Arthur saw a flicker of youthful hope in his eyes and recognized it immediately.

All Arthur had to do was cock the hammer back on the revolver and that hope died, the boy descending without a word.

It had been excruciating for Arthur, but he finally made it to the ground where the boy was waiting and motioned him forward in the direction of the crater. While the boy's back was turned, Arthur looked down at the two bodies on the ground by the car...Arthur had re-slung the rifle he had procured earlier back over his shoulder, and he bent down to retrieve a second rifle from the body of the soldier he had killed when he tried to mount the car. He had his rifles for himself and Alfred, plus a Luger...he wished he could have grabbed more, but already this weight was nearly too much for him so he resigned himself to the fact that this was the best he could do.

The trip back to the crater felt longer than Arthur remembered, but he knew they were going in the right direction as he could sense Alfred's presence getting closer. The boy-soldier continued to walk in front of him, looking back every now and then, but otherwise quiet and obedient. Arthur's legs felt heavier and heavier, his right still hurt but Arthur knew the wound had closed and his stomach was still fighting to repair itself. He knew that he was getting dangerously close to the point of shutting down; that was the point a nation's body could no longer sustain function and literally dropped until a suitable level of recovery had been reached.

Alfred, at the moment...was a good example.

Arthur seemed to wake up when he heard the young German whisper "_Mein Gott_". Shaking his head again, Arthur found the boy standing at the edge of the crater and staring down at Alfred. The Englishman stepped behind the German and nudged him, indicating for him to go forward into the crater.

The human turned and stared at Arthur with a look of frozen fear and dawning resignation. Arthur seemed to read his thoughts again and shook his head. "_Nein_..._Er ist mein Freund_. Uh… _Er ist verletzt...nicht tot_." He said in broken German, but the boy seemed to understand enough and was a little more willing to move forward and slide into the pit.

In some ways having the boy was fortunate; Arthur knew he would have had a time getting Alfred up and out of the hole. He remained at the edge of the crater and looked down at the American, still exactly as he had left him, and watched his chest rise and fall more evenly than before. Relief washed through him and nearly rivaled the pain. He had been worried that Alfred might have...slipped away while he'd been gone...Seeing him alive and actually healing made the burden a little lighter.

It looked like Alfred's first death had been postponed...yet again.

The German stood before Alfred, looking between the unconscious American and the Englishman and waiting to be told what to do next. Arthur didn't know how to word it in German, so he didn't try. "Carefully," he stressed and motioned towards Alfred, "help hoist him up so we can move him. _Verstehen Sie_?"

The boy nodded and quickly moved to Alfred's side, crouching down and eyeing the blood on the man's uniform before assessing the best way to lift him. Arthur didn't want to holster the revolver, but he eventually did and went down on his good knee and motioned for the boy to pass Alfred off to him.

Deciding his method, the German stood with his legs on either side of Alfred, crouched and hooked his arms beneath the American's, then grunted as he struggled to lift the the American's body. Alfred was heavy, Arthur knew firsthand and felt the lad's pain, but since he was feeling stronger - more literal pain - at the moment, he didn't voice any sympathy. Instead, he silently reached down and grabbed Alfred's arms when they were close enough and nearly fell back hauling him out of the pit. Once Arthur secured the American's upper half over the side, the German grabbed Alfred's legs and slid them up, clearing the man from the crater before he moved to clear it himself.

Arthur kept Alfred propped up against him, the American's head lolled to one side against Arthur's chest as the Englishman balanced him the best he could. With one hand around Alfred's chest, the other unholstered the revolver and let it hang over his bent knee in view of the German now standing up and staring at him.

"..._Danke_," Arthur said, then motioned to Alfred's side, "but we're not done. _Schnell_."

The young man gave a discreet sigh and bent down to grab one side of Alfred, slinging an arm over his neck as Arthur did the same on the other side. Thankfully the boy wasn't short for his age, which Arthur still pegged around 15 or so, and the disproportion between his own height and the boy's kept Alfred relatively level. Taking the first step, finding it much easier on his weary body to be able to move his companion like this, the German soon fell in step with him and the two carried the American between them and back into the direction of the wreck...

According to the map, the tunnels were on the other-side.

To Be Continued…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

*panting* Oh, my dear sweet Christmas! I am so sorry this took so long to post, but between school, work, and the heaviness of this particular chapter, it took a while and a few consultants. Props to my amazing Beta-editor, Oneechan, and my German Master (MelodyofStarshine, who was so epic awesome for proof-reading my rusty German). Also, shout out to my amazing co-workers (the trauma nurses on the unit who never question my bizare inquiries and are more than happy to explain the mechanics of injuries to me). Before I get into the notes...I apologize if the blood and gore of this chapter offended or upset anyone. ): Its not my intention to do so, but I'm really not the type to "sugar-coat" anything...and the pictures I like to paint with words...well, if they're super colored in red and black, then so be it. I've been desensitized to a lot of this stuff from personal experiences so you can ask anyone who knows me and they'll be honest in saying "Yeah, she has this thing about detailing the most gruesome thing ever and then asking when lunch is". I don't do it on purpose, I don't do it because I'm sadistic or some weird vampire thingy, I just honestly stopped being bothered by a lot of stuff and tend to forget others haven't. So, I again reiterate that if this chapter was too difficult to read through due to the content, please feel free to message me and I'll be more than happy to summarize it for you, censoring out the gore (though I'll still run it by my Beta editor to make sure I didn't slip up, just in case). Also, couple last minute items before we move on to the notes...Please know that while Arthur is depicted very dark, apathetic (at points), and combative, I absolutely love his character and meant no offense to anyone else who may not agree with Arthur's actions. On the same token, I am American with Germany ancestory and love my German roots dearly. I do not mean to offend anyone with depictions of German soldiers being killed so graphically, nor do I mean to offend anyone with the actions they took in this chapter. *deep breath* Last thing, prooooooomise...**HAPPY NATIONAL FREEDOM DAY**! XD Today in America is National Freedom Day! To my fellow Americans, hope ya'll got to see the Liberty Bell and the wreath laying ceremony; to my international audience, I HOPE THIS FEBRUARY 1st IS AWESOME FOR THEE! With said done, ON TO THE NOTES!

1.) For my American readers who are like me and can't convert kilometers to miles for the life of them (I DID have someone check this for me): 5 kilometers = 3.1068555 miles. X3

2.) Quadriceps are the thigh muscles. The femoral artery is actually a huge high pressure blood vessel in the leg (upper thigh to be exact) that branches off into the main veins that supply blood to your legs, up and back. In short...ya bust that, pray to God there's a surgeon in the house and he's damn good. That's right, you're learning anatomy, math, AND history in this fanfic! XD Isn't education fun?

3.) Checking a pulse means more than just checking to see if someone's dead. If someone is in tachycardia (meaning the heart is going to fast) or bradycardia (meaning the heart's beating to slow), you can tell what kind of state someone is in. When you're in a lot of pain, excited, or physically exherting yourself your heart turns into the equivalence of a jack rabbit. On the opposite end, if you're bleeding internally then your blood pressure drops and so does your heart rate. The heart rate can also drop if you're inactive to long...like say...if you're asleep or unconscious. XD Poor Alfred's case is due to the fact his body is "shutting down", as Arthur coined it, and he's repairing several internal injuries. Hey, a freaking train fell on him, DX that really has to hurt!

4.) In case you missed what took out the train (as not even Arthur has connected all the dots yet), the Germans hiding in the tunnels were waiting for the trains to pass by and call in air strikes via that radio Arthur kept hearing them "wind up". Yes, field radios at this time were gigantic, carried on the back and had to be wound up to be of any use. The Germans called a circling plane and that's what bombed the train. The Germans depicted were both a covert unit and a raiding party, tasked with keeping an eye on enemy transports and ensuring as few supplies get to the Allied lines as possible while taking what they could to return to their own side with. War is expensive, and at this stage both sides are hurting so every little bit is precious. Both sides constantly confinscated each other's weapons, technology, and provisions when possible, so what you see here is an example of that...with the clever twist of the tunnel systems involved (I'll explain that in a minute).

5.) St. George is the patron saint of England. And please don't ask me if he really wore knickers...I have no idea.

6.) ITS TRUE! Ask any respitory therapist or pulmonologist and they'll tell you that sitting up or just being upright in general helps to expand the lungs for better respitory functions. Its why we encourage pnemonia and surgery patients not to lie in bed all day less the junk in their lungs become worse.

7.) M'kay, the Hindenberg of WWI (which should not be confused with the Hindenberg Line of WWII or the zepplin that exploded over New Jersey) was the German's literal "fall-back" line. This line was the German main front throughout the war and it moved several times during the progression of hostilities. The line stretched out from about Lens (in very northern France boardering Belgium) and Verdun (which was the last line of defense for Paris and one of the bloodiest conflicts of the war for both the Central and Allied Powers). Several smaller defensive lines speckled the war zone, but the Hindenberg was THE main line the Allies were fighting to penetrate and destroy. No Man's Land is the term used for the area between the German lines and the Allied front, meaning that giant crater filled mass in between was were the brave had to try and cross to confront the other side. Sadly, this No Man's Land is where the majority of the casualties were sustained. To counter this, BOTH sides began making tunnles beneath the battlegrounds and pushed to get to the other side without exposing themselves. On the German side, its a well documented fact that a good portion of tunnel labor was done by Prisoners of War taken from both the Western and Eastern Fronts (though mostly the Eastern). Its said that the German tunnel network was built faster and more efficently because of this, but depending upon what reports you read you get different opinions. Anyway, as you can well imagine...some of the Allied and Central Power's tunnels bisected and thus we have an underground war AND an above ground war happening simultaiously. The city of Arras (which had a series of tunnles beneath it before either side started digging) where our heroes (*giggles*) are currently near is another decisive battle site. This is the city where the Allies managed to take the city and the Canadians banded together and take Vimy Ridge (ask any Canadian, its a point of pride). Vimy Ridge was arguably one of the most important feats of the war, and one of the most impressive victories for the Allies. Taking the high ground was everything in WWI, from there it was easier to see your targets, pick them off, and win battles in small numbers.

8.) On that note...I do NOT recommend anyone try Arthur's very risky battle tactics depicted here. D8 Banking on the enemy not to blow your ass up because they might want the booty beneath your booty or that they're worried about one of their own getting injured is not a wise thing to count on in war. Other than this being a crazy like 13 on 1 battle...dude, Arthur is _NUTZ_! ...But so bad ass. ;D

9.) If you're curious about the little German boy, know this...A.) He'll get a name next chapter, B.) He'll likely be adios next chapter, and C.) He represents the "boy-soldiers" of the war. On both sides there were young men and boys who lied about their ages to join the war effort (I even read an account of a 14 year old doing this). Its a terrible thing, in my opinion, and the "age of enlistment" on both sides was, for the first part of the war, a strict 18-35...however, as the war stretched on and able bodies became less and less avalible, the restrictions laxed and some recruiters looked the other way when a young lad proclaimed they wanted to enlist. *sigh* I dunno what countries on the Central side had drafts (selective service), but I know Canada and the U.S. BOTH passed them out to fill the ranks (though Canadians were much more willing to enlist on their own than the Americans).

10.) Also...TRANSLATION TIME! These will all be rough translations, meaning I'm not going to literally translate if there's an English equivalent that makes more sense. THANK YOU AGAIN TO MELODYofSTARSHINE! XDDD

= "_Der Luftstreik hat funktioniert_!" – "The airstrike worked!"

= "_Ruhe! Nicht so langsam_!" – "Shut up! Stop lagging!"

= "_Ausführung_!" – "Move out!" (The American military equivalent to the German command)

= "_Zu Befehl_!" and "_Jawohl_!" – Both mean the equivalent to "Affirmative" and "Yes sir!"

= "_drei_" – XD That's German for "3"

= "_Feuer Frei_!" – The American military equivalent is "Fire at will/Open fire!"

= "_GRENATE_!" – The literal translation is just "grenade", but when someone on the other side of said explosive, on a battlefield, starts screaming it, its more like "HOLY SHIT, IT'S A GRENADE!"

= "_N-Nein_..._b_-_bitte_..." – "N-no…please…"

= "_B-bitte..._" – "P-please..."

= "…_Soldat_." – "...Soldier."

= "…_rückzug_." – "Retreat/Withdraw"

= "_W-wo_?" – "W-where?"

= "_Ja_, _wo_?" – "Yeah, where?" XD Don't you just love Arthur being epic awesome with his German?

= "_Es ist kein Gewehr_! _Es ist kein Gewehr_!" – "Its not a gun! Its not a gun!" Poor kid, Arthur terrifies him. XD

= "_Ich werde nicht schießen_...provided you cooperate. _Verstehen Sie_?" – Arthur is so on a roll, "I won't shoot…Do you understand?"

= "_Mein Gott_" – "My God"

= "_Nein_..._Er ist mein Freund_. Uh… _Er ist verletzt, nicht tot_." – "No…he is my friend." The "uh" is universal for "Oh crap, totally just forgot what to say", but he remembers and ends with "He's injured, not dead". Poor kid thought Arthur had shot and killed the guy in the ditch (Alfred) and he was next…because its so easy to mistake Arthur for a serial killer. X3

= "_Verstehen Sie_?" – "Do you understand?"

= "…_Danke_." – "…Thank you."

= "_Schnell_" – "Quickly"

...Holy crap, those were a lot of notes, D8 SORRY! I've gotten a couple messages from readers saying they look forward to my footnotes, but I'm still sorry if I stressed anyone by writing so many. Again, not my intention...I just really like to share facts and devulge the coolness of history. Anywho! THANK YOU SO MUCH TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! OMG, you guys totally make my WEEK! XD Getting a review alert on my phone while I'm moving between classes, working at the hospital, or stuck at a stoplight really makes me smile! ^_^ To my favoriters, subscribers, and alert-adders, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO YOU TOO! XD I love sharing my stories and it really humbles and leaves me in awe when I see how large the international audience is (BTW, as of Monday, the Canadians topped the encumbent U.K. viewers by 7...That battle has been going back and forth for months with Belgium slowly catching up. Dear Lord!). ^_^ You guys all thrill and inspire me, and I really wanna thank ya'll from the bottom of my heart. I'll try to update again as soon as possible, and hopefully next chapter it'll be a little brighter as Alfred will be up and running (YAY!)! UNTIL NEXT TIME!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes & Anatomical Descriptions, and Violence

Chapter Eleven Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ _Grenadier_ Lukas Beck

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XI

_"The sins of my soul."_

'_He's back!' Alfred gleefully shouted in his mind, racing from the sitting room on the second floor and taking the stairs down two at a time._

_He couldn't contain the happiness and excitement flooding him; it was as though seeing the small unit of mounted red coats had burst a dam inside of him. There was only one person alive who could do that to him, only one person on this earth who could tear him away from watching the dusty road leading up to the house - and that was the one person he'd been watching the road for._

_Alfred landed on the hard wood with a pounce before he took off running for the front door, grasped the door knob, and threw the heavy oak barrier open like it was nothing. On the first step before him stood a man in a red uniform, silhouetted by the sun with the rays around him spilling into the house and resting at the young American's feet. But the boy's eyes were not for the ground, they were all for the dazed face of the man above him._

_He'd grown a full head taller since he last saw him, and now Alfred reached his caretaker's chest. He looked like a young lad of fourteen or fifteen, making Alfred incredibly proud of the growth spurt and he couldn't wait to show Arthur. In his excitement he failed to notice how incredibly tired the older nation seemed._

"_DAD!" He shouted, leaping before wrapping his arms tightly around Arthur's midsection, making the man grunt; but eventually an unsteady hand found itself nestled atop the boy's golden hair. _

"_...Hello, Alfred," he replied softly, almost as if the moment still had him believing he was in a dream...one he was dying to wake up from, yet desperate to hold on to._

_Alfred beamed widely, finally letting go of the Englishman as he bounced in his step, still smiling up at him. "Hey, Dad, guess what?" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide so Arthur could see all of him. "I've gotten bigger! I measured myself against the tree outside like we used to, and I've gotten really tall! Isn't that awesome, Dad?"_

_Arthur remained standing in the doorway, looking down at his charge with a withdrawn expression on his face. There was a subtle upturn at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were distant as he nodded to the boy and appraised him. "So you have, Alfred...that's wonderful."_

_Proud at having received his mentor's praise and approval, Alfred felt ecstatic and positively radiated happiness. But slowly the oddness of the situation began to sink in and he noticed the heaviness around Arthur for the first time. The boy cocked his head like a little bird - usually this lead to Arthur chuckling at him for looking like an owl - and his expression fell to confusion and self-consciousness. Why did Arthur look so...sad?_

"_Hey, Dad, are you alright?"_

_Arthur looked lost for a moment, and then came back to himself as he stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The heavy latch fell into place and Arthur kept his profile turned away from Alfred for a long time... He never withdrew his hand from the knob and for a moment Alfred was afraid Arthur might suddenly open the door again and run. The boy felt incredibly upset and wondered if he'd done anything wrong to make Arthur like this. He bit his lower lip and turned desperate young eyes towards the man still frozen before him._

_What had he done to make the person he loved most so upset?_

"_...Dad?"_

_Arthur looked like he had received a small shock and slowly raised his head, letting his hand fall away from the knob. He turned to look back down at his charge and appeared pained with what he saw. Alfred looked utterly lost and confused, still believing he'd done something wrong and Arthur would leave again. _

_The Englishman had already been gone for more than a year, leaving Alfred alone and missing him terribly. Alfred knew there was a war going on in the north, some place called New France that he'd heard Arthur talking about from time to time. Alfred had never traveled beyond the reach of his colonies, but he knew his people had. Arthur had told him that he'd be using British American troops to aid in the fighting...given it had been British American troops that had started the hostilities. He also told him a little more than six years ago that he didn't blame Alfred for the war, as Alfred hadn't been present when the conflicts took place and wasn't privy to the additional motivation behind the scenes. That had surprisingly hurt Alfred for some reason. He wanted Arthur to trust him enough to let him in on...whatever "additional motivation" he was referring to. He also wanted Arthur to let him join in the fight but the older nation refused. While Arthur had taught Alfred some of the basic mechanics of war, how to use a musket, and had even given him some history lessons on the wars he'd fought in Europe and around the world...he seemed hesitant when it came time for those lessons to be put to use._

_Instead, Arthur had said he'd be leaving Alfred in charge of the colonies while he was gone. However, in the Englishman's absence, the boy had been reduced to a mere observer as the men in elected and appointed positions ran the government. He watched, sometimes he asked questions out of curiosity, but for the most part he occasionally followed directions or remained aloof._

_Unless, of course, he was finding ways to amuse himself at the human officials' expenses; such as stealing a horse to go joyriding, hiding frogs in their desks, or deciding to take interest in important paperwork while running at top speed down the halls with a parade of people chasing him. Several had begun to loathe the wild little sunspot while others met his antics with patronization or chiding._

_It hadn't bothered Alfred too much at the time; he was still a child and cared little for the world and responsibilities of older men. It was only when Arthur was there to teach him that he took it seriously...and that was only because the Englishman praised him when he did something right. Arthur had told him that someday he'd be responsible for all domestic affairs in British America, something Alfred met with a peculiar combination of awe and apprehension. Europeans took a lot of pride in running things, making laws, enforcing them, and squabbling over land for reasons Alfred never understood. He knew there was plenty of land out there, far more than there were people to inhabit it, so why were people starting wars to stake a claim on something no one was going to live on?_

_It just didn't make sense to him, but as it was important to Arthur...he didn't question his sovereign nation's wishes. Even if the pursuit of said wishes involved engaging in horrendous wars._

_It had been an especially long war in the north, given the long periods of time the Englishman had been gone. It had been a bloody war, too...he heard the talk in town and a few times Arthur had even mentioned something about it. He knew the empire was strong and could handle himself (especially against that French maniac he kept telling him about), but he hated how long war would take Arthur from him and how quiet his guardian always seemed to be upon his return. Now had to be the worst Alfred had ever seen him...Had something terrible happened? Could it be that..._

"_...Dad...did we-" It was the most inconceivable thing, but Alfred had to know. "...Did we loose the war?"_

_Arthur's expression was blank and his body looked stiff. He was quiet for a tense moment before he shook his head and tried to soften his expression, but sadly this made Alfred more worried than relieved. "No, Alfred...we didn't loose the-" He cut himself off as something flashed in his mind before he sighed and continued, "war..."_

_The young American smiled, though his eyes remained concerned. "That's great, Dad! So you kicked France's butt and can stay home with me for a while? ...Before you go back to England?"_

_At the mention of France, Arthur looked like someone had slapped him across the face; but Alfred optimistically played it off as one of the usual negative reactions Arthur gave when the French were mentioned. The boy was more focused on probing an answer out of his caretaker about staying for a time in America before leaving on the ships to his other home...well, his real home._

_London was a place Alfred had never seen, but wished he could go to if it meant spending less time alone and more time with Arthur._

_Finally, the man in red seemed to find the will to speak and what he said startled his young ward. "Alfred...what do you think of me?"_

_Alfred seemed taken aback by this. His sky-blue eyes widened and he seemed even more confused by Arthur's question. What did he think of him? Had he not made it clear enough all these years?_

_Alfred smiled. "I love you, Dad. You're my best friend and take care of me, so you're the best person in the world!" No one else cared about him as much as Arthur, so to think anything less than wonderful of the man was beyond him._

_The Englishman seemed to relax and warm a little at that, a subtle smile gracing his lips, but there was still great sadness in his eyes. "You took care of yourself perfectly well before I arrived...but I thank you for your kindness. I meant...I meant what kind of man do you think I am? You know about some of the wars I've fought, you know I've taken lives and have even conquered whole nations...I know you've heard some of the negative talk about me in town..."_

_Alfred scoffed and rolled his eyes. "As if I believe any of it, Dad. I know you personally, so I__ know the truth and don't pay attention to the lies."_

_Arthur was silent at that, but his mind wondered, 'What will happen the day you learn the real truths in those lies?'_

_Sighing, the Englishman continued. "Perhaps I should phrase this another way," he said, looking directly into Alfred's eyes to gauge his reaction. "What would you do if I killed a man right in front of you? What would you think of me then? ...Would you think me to be a monster?"_

_Again Alfred looked befuddled, but seemed like he was seriously contemplating the question. He wasn't used to homecomings filled with so many questions like this, but Arthur seemed very upset and the proper answer might just cheer him up._

"_I know you wouldn't just kill anyone, dad...you'd have a reason, and a good one, so I wouldn't think of you as a monster for doing what's right."_

"_Have I not taught you that our religion forbids the taking of life?"_

_Alfred smiled as he proudly replied, "But there are exceptions, like war and on behalf of God." He felt himself very clever for remembering that._

"_But out of spite or personal gain it is forbidden. Would you hate me for my sin if you knew I had killed for those very reasons?"_

_Now Alfred was getting uncomfortable and cast his eyes to the floor. Arthur wouldn't do something like that. Good men didn't kill for selfish reasons...and Arthur was a good man, so maybe this was a test, like those hypothetical lessons the Englishman was always giving him._

_...But...why didn't this feel like one?_

"_...I'd forgive you. I owe you so much and I've seen how selfless you can be...I think God could forgive you too if you asked Him. Isn't that what faith is all about?"_

_Arthur paused, still watching the child, analyzing him, and finally he closed his eyes and leaned back against the door with a sigh. Alfred was biting his lip again, afraid he'd said something wrong, but eventually Arthur returned his gaze and paused whatever apology was forthcoming._

"_So...you'd stand before God and argue in my defense, even if I deserved whatever punishment there was?"_

_Alfred quickly nodded. "Of course!"_

"_And what if my enemies slew me before you could come to my defense? What if vengeance by those I had wronged was the punishment I deserved?"_

_The child's expression was frantic at first, but then bled away to cautious amusement. "Come on, dad...no one's stronger than you. You're invincible, right dad?"_

_Arthur didn't lighten up at this; in fact, he looked more solemn. "...No man or nation is invincible, Alfred...Even Rome fell to ashes."_

_It was a rare moment for Alfred, one the Englishman never saw when he'd first taken the boy under the claim of the empire, but one he was seeing more often as he got older. Alfred's face suddenly seemed to age; the color of his sky-blue eyes darkened as they narrowed. His body stood a little taller, his expression like a barely restrained guard for the fire burning beneath and making his presence all the more intimidating. Times like this reminded people how incredibly strong the child was, how he could easily crush a man with the power contained in his little body. He looked set, determined, and more like the being he was destined to become than the adolescent most knew him to be. Arthur saw such potential in this expression, in that ever-building fire...but at the same time it made his stomach churn._

_It was the fire of passion - passion and the will to act upon it. There was power and solid resolve within those flames, something Arthur himself had only experienced akin to war. _

_Seeing that reflected in Alfred...and in the other boy who practically mirrored his face...Arthur felt the cold hands of dread straining to seize his heart._

_The deadly calm of Alfred's tone sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, but he held still as he watched the shadow of Alfred's potential merge with his present. "I'd destroy the men who hurt you and find a way to ask God for you back."_

_Too afraid to address the last part, Arthur replied, "...Even if my enemies were stronger than you, fighting for a cause they felt worthy enough to kill for...would you still fight knowing you couldn't win?"_

_Alfred didn't hesitate. "I would fight and I would win," he said. "It's only a question of how long it would take."_

"_...I see..." The Englishman replied in a low voice. His eyes lowered and for a moment silence passed between them. _

_After having seen this very look in the eyes of a child more silent than the one before him...Arthur now knew what words would have been spoken had the child a voice with which to speak. He knew how he would have reacted had he the strength to..._

_He would have avenged Francis and begged God for his Papa back._

_The empire had fought and he had won. It had been war, but it was a war fought for selfish reasons and personal gain. It had been fought out of spite behind an imperialistic disguise; one justified by all the right words and none of the meaning. How long would God spare him before the child of France rose against him? ...What of the potential for Alfred to do the same?_

_Revenge was a powerful thing, almost as much as divine punishment._

_Suddenly, Arthur felt a light tug on one of his bangs. He looked up and found Alfred before him, his face soft and light again with the innocence of his age. Sky-blue eyes met his own with a silent smile and none of the fire from before. Arthur couldn't stand to see such forgiveness in the same face that silently condemned him. He had never felt such bitterness in victory as he did now, and he couldn't tell a soul beyond the one standing before him. One who didn't understand...one he prayed would _never_ understand...The thought brought him such sorrow as inevitability washed over him._

_He wondered if Rome had ever felt like this._

"_Don't be sad. It's just a lesson, right, dad?"_

_Arthur's arms wrapped around Alfred's smaller body, pulling him tightly into an embrace as he pressed his face into the boy's soft hair..._

_And let the golden strands soak up the silent tears that fell._

_

* * *

_

Repairing broken bones was the worst. It was his least favorite part of healing.

The feeling of the hard compact osseous tissue grating over itself was incredibly cringe-worthy, but what really hurt were the spongier insides of the bone reforming. When the blood vessels and nerves began reconnecting...dear God, that was horrendously painful. Because he was a nation, the process of healing and reforming was a rapidly accelerated affair. It was all great and dandy when one needed a speedy recovery to return to the battlefield, but the agony of being aware of the process was hellish.

Especially ribs...oh God, he hated regrowing ribs!

He felt each bone rebuilding itself, repairing fractured areas and pulling the excess blood that had soaked into the surrounding tissue back into its rightful place. He could feel each rib bone sliding beneath his skin and reattaching to the costal cartilage along his sternum. When the elastic union flexed the punctured lungs mended beneath the newly formed thoracic cage, allowing him full respirations without difficultly. The crack along his pelvis that nearly bisected his ilium, compacted and hardened; the process feeling like someone had taken sandpaper to his hip and worried the bone despite his protests. The newly opened veins and arteries flooded him with warmth as blood began to circulate properly, making color return to his deprived complexion. Muscle repair was made easier once proper blood flow was restored, and the heat helped to soothe away some of the pain.

He had slipped in and out of darkness for what felt like a long time after Arthur had left him. He remembered briefly becoming aware of sounds and feeling as someone jostled him from wherever he'd been resting. The smell of burning metal and fire, the sweat of whoever was carrying him, and diesel fuel were still thick in his memory; but now all he could smell was cool dampness and dirt.

He was on his back, something he was made aware of when he moved his head to the side and felt dirt give way beneath him. He sighed, no longer in that odd between-state that had him coming in and out of consciousness. His eyes slid open and for a moment he was very confused...

Why was it so dark...and where were his glasses?

Alfred tried not to groan as he lifted a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. He was getting a headache, but thankfully it wasn't due to a head injury...just a lack of glasses. Sliding his hand up through his hair, Alfred turned his head to his left and vaguely saw two shapes outlined against a low flickering light. He tried to squint and make out more, but any attempts to identify the figures fled him as his eyes locked on to the silver glint of a gun hanging from one of the figure's hands.

A person was sitting on the ground, back pressed against what looked like a high dirt wall that connected to a ceiling held up by crude yet thick wooden beams. It kind of reminded him of the mines he'd seen in California, but he wasn't so sure if there were mines in...whatever part of Europe this was. Regardless, figuring all that out took second to his attention on the person with the gun.

There was a figure lying on the ground next to the hunched-over person against the wall. The person's back was towards Alfred so he couldn't see his face...but that didn't matter. He knew who it was when a jolt ran through him and ice seized his insides.

It was Arthur, and he wasn't moving.

Without thinking, Alfred's hand shot down to the holster at his side as he simultaneously pushed himself up into a kneeling position. The figure with the gun jumped and nearly dropped the weapon in his startled state...but quickly froze as they both realized that Alfred's hand was empty.

Someone had relieved him of his gun.

There was a tense moment of silence before the man across from him slowly raised his free hand as the other lowered to leave the handgun on the ground. Alfred, still reeling that his hand was empty, watched with tense alertness as the man raised his now empty hands, palms out, and tried to show he was unarmed.

Alfred was deeply suspicious. Why the hell was this guy surrendering to another guy without a gun?

"Peace, peace..." The person whispered.

Now Alfred was really confused. Not only was that the heaviest German accent he'd ever heard, but...it...sounded like a kid.

"Who the hell are you?" Alfred growled, slowly moving the hand that had originally gone for the gun down to search for the knife usually on his back.

Surprise, surprise. That was missing too.

The young man shook his head and seemed to be frantically searching for an answer, "N-Not going to shoot."

"That's not what I asked you," Alfred bit back, eyes quickly moving between the kid and Arthur...who still hadn't moved. His eyes went to the gun on the ground, originally thinking how best to grab it before quickly realizing it was a revolver. Arthur's revolver.

Unbelievable anger burst inside the American.

"What the hell did you do to him!" He shouted, immediately on his feet and towering over the German.

The sudden hostility from the American made the young soldier quickly press himself further back into the wall, staring wide-eyed at the man before him. "_Er ist verletzt, nicht tot! Nicht tot_!" He exclaimed, but seeing as this didn't seem to make any sense to the American, he swallowed and struggled with saying it in English. "N-not dead! Injured, not dead!"

It was hard to make out the words through the kid's panic and heavy accent, but a swell of hope surged inside of Alfred, though he tried his best to combat it. He wouldn't believe it until he saw it, he had to see Arthur alive and well by his own standards or the little bastard was gonna pay.

Never taking his eyes from the German, Alfred (feeling slightly lightheaded as he found himself standing for the first time in a while) stepped parallel to the boy. His body still ached and the stiffness of his newly reformed bones and joints made moving difficult, but he was more concerned about his colleague than himself, making his way first to the gun, securing it, then over to Arthur.

Crouching by the Englishman's head, Alfred reached down and pressed two fingers to his neck. There was a slow but steady pulse that proved the man was alive, something that made Alfred's heart leap, but upon tearing his eyes away from the German he found the entire front of the Brit's uniform stained with blood. To make matters worse there were dried patches of darkness in the dirt below his abdomen...meaning he'd been actively bleeding when he either fell or was placed in this position.

Giving a glare of warning to the German, who was still pressed against the wall with his arms up, Alfred kept the revolver in one hand and slowly rolled Arthur onto his back so he could better assess his injuries. To his surprise, Arthur's belts had already been removed and his tunic was unbuttoned; he slid the garment open and found that someone had already bandaged whatever wound had been there. Alfred blinked, unsure of whether Arthur had done this himself or...

His eyes slid up to the kid, question already on his face as the boy sighed and shrugged. "_Ich_...tried."

Surprise couldn't be any more profound on the American's face as he looked back at the bandages and then back to the kid. "You did this?"

Even though his vision was blurry at this distance, he could see the German flush and look away, nodding, "_Ja_...both..."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow at that; both of them? Was there another injury? Alfred looked down and quickly started searching for any more wounds, but other than a healed cut on Arthur's jaw and what looked to be a closed wound on his leg, he couldn't find any.

"What do you mean?" He finally asked after giving up his search.

The young man gnawed on his lower lip before he motioned with his head to the two rifles leaning up against the wall behind Alfred. The American looked and still didn't understand what the kid was getting at-

...Oh.

Alfred glanced back at the kid before looking down at Arthur's bandaged torso. Being very careful, Alfred began to peel back the adhesive holding the gauze to the skin and exposed the wound. He heard a stifled protest from the German, but ignored it as he looked at the fresh scar tissue covering a vertical split in the skin. There was dried blood around the site, but the wound was completely sealed with new pink flesh. Alfred gingerly touched the area and ran his thumb along the scar before glancing back at the rifles. This wasn't a bullet wound, this was a stab wound.

Likely from a bayonet.

When Alfred pulled off the last of the bandages before buttoning Arthur's tunic, he glanced up to see the boy staring at the new scar as if mesmerized. Alfred bet he had never seen an injury heal so fast, let alone a life-threatening one. He couldn't think of what could have possibly possessed the German to stab Arthur then bandaged him back up, but he was still grateful.

Absolutely nothing about the current state of affairs made sense: being stuck in a place that looked like a mine with an unconscious Englishman, a teenage German soldier, and all in the middle of war-torn France was just insane. But…it was acceptable if he and Arthur still had life in them.

So, might as well break the ice.

"Hey kid," Alfred began, startling the German as he tore his wide eyes from Arthur's torso and back to the American. "What's your name?"

The boy-soldier blinked and looked surprised. "_Mein Name_?"

Alfred nodded, finishing his task before sitting back on his heels as he holstered the revolver at his side. "Yeah. I'm Alfred, and you are...?"

The German seemed to feel a bit better when the weapon was out of the American's hand, and slowly he lowered his arms and sat a bit more relaxed. "_Grenadier_ Lukas Beck...um..._E-es freut mich, Sie kennenzulernen_."

Alfred made a face, like he was trying to process what the kid said, but ultimately nothing came to him. "...Uh...sorry about this...Lukas?" He asked, receiving a nod that that was indeed the young soldier's name. "I don't understand a lick of German."

The German gave him a look like the man was either mad or possibly unintelligent. '_A lick of German_'? What on earth did that mean?

Alfred looked puzzled at the reaction, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh...guess you don't understand much English, huh?"

The boy swallowed and tried to formulate a response. "I u-understand...more than...speaking..." In truth he read and wrote English much better than he spoke it. His older brothers, who were fluent, teased him all the time about how goofy his English sounded. He just couldn't make the words sound natural, no matter how hard he tried.

Alfred seemed to perk up a bit at this and smiled...before looking a bit sheepish. "Ah, then you've got one up on me. I don't speak or understand your language at all."

The young man sighed and shrugged again, letting his legs extend from their bent position and just seemed resigned. "_Es ist_...okay..."

If circumstances had been different Alfred would have felt a bit like an uncultured schmuck, but as it was he figured the war would forgive him for not knowing a foreign language. "Since you understand me, okay...do you think you're up to answering some questions if I keep them simple and yes or no?"

Lukas's face soured, like he wanted to protest something...but eventually he settled for sighing again and nodded his head.

The kid looked like he'd offended him, and Alfred could see how, but he just didn't know any other way to do it. "Alright...first...where are we?"

"The tunnels," Lukas replied, having no difficulty with it.

Alfred, however, looked like he'd just spoken Russian. "Tunnels?"

Lukas nodded and pointed to the side of Arthur's tunic, towards his pocket.

Alfred's eyes followed his direction and looked at the pocket before reaching in and fishing out what looked like a map drawn on a sectional of a sheet. He recognized the topography of France (he'd seen it enough times during those infernal meetings), but the German words and red lines all over the place befuddled him. So...these were the tunnels...under France?

Wait, there were tunnels under France?

"Where are we on this map?" Alfred asked, thinking about passing it to the kid, but it didn't seem necessary as the boy replied.

"_Im Süden des Arras_."

Arras? Okay, that was a name he recognized...since the first word kind of sounded like "south", he looked back at the map and decided it was the best generalized idea he was going to get. South of Arras...it didn't really narrow it down, but it proved that they'd never made it to Belgium.

"Okay, how long have we been in the tunnels?" He asked, then glance down at the Englishman. "...Had Arthur made it here on his own?" His expression was more worried than before and the German picked up on it.

The boy looked between Alfred and the British man who'd brought him here at gunpoint. They had never exchanged names, something Lukas guessed Alfred didn't know enemy soldiers weren't suppose to do. If enemies exchanged names then it humanized them, thus making it harder to kill then when the time came. Lukas had only given Alfred his because he had hoped it would keep the American from hurting him. He...kind of regretted it now. He also wished Alfred hadn't told him the Englishman's name.

He had nearly given in to the urge to kill the enemy soldier when he first passed out; now he regretted having nearly killed the man named Arthur.

"..._Ich weiß nicht_, um...many...hours, I think," Lukas replied after a time, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as he tried to hide his shame.

Alfred thought about it, then nodded and figured that it sounded about right, given how healed he was. He could never say he'd been in a train explosion, knocked around like a rag-doll, then had a ton of metal dropped on him...but he figured a good "many hours" would be what it would take to bring him back to functionality. Arthur, however...damn, he was a mess.

"You and Arthur both brought me here?"

Lukas nodded. The trip had been long and the man named Arthur had had to take several rest periods to bring them this far, but eventually he couldn't continue and they ended up here in a smaller offshoot of the main tunnel - one ended by a cave-in so there would be no chance of enemies sneaking up on them.

It hadn't been long after Arthur had set Alfred down that Lukas has grabbed the Luger in Arthur's belt and pulled it on him. The Englishman had been far too exhausted from his injuries and the blood loss to fight him, but he had said something to Lukas that made him hesitate yet again. The man passed out shortly after. By that point, the young soldier couldn't bring himself to kill two unconscious men and simply refilled the oil in his lantern then proceeded to provide novice first aid.

He had been waiting there ever since, unsure of what to do or where to go. He'd been taught to follow orders all his life, whether they were from his family, instructors, or his military superiors...so...on his own he just couldn't make a decision.

His entire unit was gone. Even though he hadn't been with them for very long he had still formed a kind of camaraderie with them. They talked about their families a lot, some of them joking that a good kid like him might someday be worthy of marrying one of their daughters. His _Oberleutnant_ had been very strict and demanding, but he had been a seasoned soldier and led their unit in several successful raids since Lukas joined. Lukas greatly respected the man, and the _Leutnant_ too. The_ Leutnant _had been the near opposite of the commander; the man was almost always smiling and cracking jokes, always trying to lighten the mood and keep morale high.

They all knew the war wasn't going well. They were all tired and hated being trapped behind enemy lines, just sitting and waiting to relay intelligence and cut off Allied supply transports. But _Leutnant_ Müller always found a way to make them laugh, magic an extra canteen of stale beer out of thin air, or provide advice to help cope with another day without change.

He and the _Leutnant_ had survived the stick grenade because they'd been checking the last of the train cars; but the _Leutnant_ hadn't survived the bullet from Arthur's gun when he'd tried to surprise him atop the coach. Lukas had been beneath the ladder when he'd been shot...he still hadn't cleaned all the man's blood off his face and clothes.

A burning sensation began to prickle at the back of his eyes, his sinuses burned and he felt the telltale wetness collecting above his lashes. He hadn't allowed himself to cry since it all happened; he had felt so ashamed for not being able to avenge them, people he really counted as friends, and people who had trusted him. He'd been young, they all suspected he was a lot younger than his paperwork stated, but they expected him to pull his own weight just like everyone else. He tried his best and had even received praise for it. He really felt accepted after a while, even though he'd never fired his rifle once since training. He hadn't killed anyone, not like the others had, but they actually seemed to like that best about him.

One of his friends, a man named Niclas, had said having him around reminded them all of what they were fighting for. Niclas had often told him about his son at home, a young man Lukas had reminded him a lot of...Most of them said that...that he reminded them of home.

Niclas had been their radio operator and the others he knew had been around the rifle cache when the attack began.

As he really felt like he was going to lose his battle against his tears, the man named Alfred crouched down on his haunches before him. Lukas stared at him, still dismayed, but not so much afraid anymore. It wasn't that getting hurt or dying wasn't frightening to him, but he sensed from Alfred that, unlike Arthur, he really wasn't going to harm him. He didn't know how he knew...but he did, and it made him want to cry all the more.

"Hey..." The American began and then, in a move that shocked Lukas, raised his index finger and poked the bridge of the young German's nose. "Have you seen my glasses anywhere? It's hard as heck to see you without my specs."

Lukas blinked. The question caught him completely off guard as he automatically began trying to remember what the American's glasses looked like. It took him a few moments before he realized that he had removed the glasses after tending to Brit.

The American moved a lot in his sleep, like he was in pain, and Lukas had feared the spectacles would be crushed during his tossing.

The German hastily reached down to the space next to him and with a shaky hand retrieved the eyewear before handing it to Alfred. The man smiled and took them gratefully, wiping them off on the edge of his tunic before putting them on.

It took a few blinks, but Alfred's vision eventually cleared and he was able to see the kid for the first time.

...Damn, he looked young.

His pale face was speckled with long since dried blood and his uniform didn't look much better. His hair was flat and blond; his eyes a very light blue and wide like a deer's. The boy's obvious fear aside, it seemed like his eye were just naturally larger than most, which added to the youthful appearance of his soft face. He didn't have the fully developed body of a man - he was still lanky and thin with no facial hair on his angled chin. Alfred guesstimated his height to be about 5'6'' or 5'7'', making him much shorter than himself or Arthur. He looked like he weighed next to nothing, the fact that his uniform was too big for him only added to that assumption.

Alfred had seen child soldiers before. In the Revolution, men and women of all ages had helped in the effort for independence. In the Civil War...he still had images of young men donning blue or gray uniforms as they charged the blood-soaked fields. The memories hurt him deeply inside when he thought of the young lives lost in wars to either give birth to or preserve his country. Now, here in Europe...he found more of them...

Despite the terrible thoughts in his head, Alfred still managed to smile for Lukas, "There we go! Thanks, I really needed these. Not only am I blind as a bat without them, but it gives me one heck of a headache to be spec-less too long."

Lukas gave Alfred a dumbfounded look, but nodded in response and swallowed. "Uh..._Bitte Schön_..." He replied, now eyeing Alfred with something akin to suspicion. The moods were just changing too fast for him, and while he still didn't think Alfred would hurt him...he was a very, very strange man.

Then again, Lukas had never met an American before so he couldn't be sure if it was just Alfred or if all Americans were like this.

"Hmm," Alfred hummed and cocked his head, still smiling. "I guess that means '_you're welcome_'. So, Lukas, think you can grab the supplies and help me and Sleeping Beauty navigate our way out of here? I'd really appreciate the help."

That one staggered him. This guy was _asking_ for his help? Even suggesting he help carry supplies -which were mainly guns- and navigate? Needless to say, that was not what Lukas was expecting.

For goodness sake, a half-dead Englishman had brought him here at gunpoint and now an American was acting like his best friend! What was with these people?

Knowing there really wasn't any point in saying no, Lukas nodded and slowly drew himself up as Alfred mirrored him. Seeing Alfred at his full height made the boy feel a little more self-conscious. _Ach du grüne Neune_, the man was a giant! It wasn't just his height, but the American was muscular and fully-grown compared to his own fifteen year old body.

Restraining the urge to cringe, Lukas looked back to Arthur and raised an eyebrow to Alfred, asking if he wanted help carrying the Englishman.

Alfred followed him, but turned back and gave him a pat on the shoulder that made the boy jump. "Nah, don't worry about Arthur, I'll take care of him. I'll dress him back up in the gear and carry him if you'll just hold the lantern and lead the way...I assume Arthur might have given you a destination in mind, so if you could just get us there that'd be great."

Still not really sure if there were any catches or ulterior motives at work - after all, the Allies were the enemy - Lukas just nodded and continued to watch Alfred suspiciously as he happily gave the German an '_atta boy_'. The American began to head over to the rifles, grabbing them before carefully sitting Arthur up and pulling the rifle slings in a cross over the Englishman's back.

Ah, so he wasn't entrusting him with the weapons...that, surprisingly, made Lukas feel a little better.

Alfred reattached Arthur's utility belt, then reached for the one Lukas had removed from him in his sleep, sliding it back around his waist. The American also retrieved and holster his Colt semi-automatic, the one Lukas had practically been sitting on, and returned Arthur's revolver to the Brit's side. Alfred paused for a moment...then turned to Lukas, standing not far from him...

His eyes scanned the young soldier before returning to his face. "I'll let you keep the knife on your back if it makes you feel better, but rest assured, I will confiscate it if you try anything...understand?" He said, still with that harmless smile, but his eyes were dark with warning.

The German swallowed and turned his body to the side, knife away from Alfred's line of sight, as he nodded. To be honest he did feel better knowing he had a knife, but at the same time he knew he'd be a fool to use it...

He had seen the injuries on both men and they were still alive...what good was a knife going to do against...whatever had helped them survive?

Satisfied, Alfred turned back to Arthur and began to pick him up. Lukas was quite impressed by how easily Alfred seemed to take the man's weight; he and Arthur had had a time getting the American even this far, but Alfred didn't look strained at all. With a quick shift, Alfred had Arthur settled on his back and steady as he hooked his arms beneath his legs. He seemed to be taking great care with the Englishman, and turned to look over his shoulder to see Arthur's cheek pressed against it.

Lukas found himself wondering just what these two were doing this far north of France with no unit, no reinforcements, and clearly no way to get in contact with their allies. It was clear they had some kind of connection, and based on what he'd seen he knew the American had been badly hurt before he'd met the Englishman. Had it been a rescue mission or had the American been that damaged in the attack on the train? Maybe they had been separated from their fellows and were trying to make their way back? His imagination kept the possible scenarios coming, but it always left him wondering.

Especially about the pair's uncanny ability to survive. No matter the scenario, the facts were that these two had taken many fatal hits and yet they were both still alive. This...fascinated him.

"Ready to go?"

The boy snapped from his thoughts and quickly moved to grab the lantern and oil canteen he'd left where he'd been sitting. Returning the canteen to his belt, he slowly moved forward to take the map from Alfred's hand before quickly looking over it. He knew where Arthur had indicated he wanted to go, or at least he assumed so, and he turned his head towards the north and froze.

Was he really going to do this? One of these men had wiped out his entire unit, men who had been his only friends in this war. Both of them were with the enemy and both of them had threatened his life. While the American seemed pleasant now, he had already made it known that he would turn in an instant if the German tried to resist...

Could he live with himself if he aided these Allied agents?

"I don't know how you ended up with us...but I am grateful to you."

Lukas stiffened and couldn't bring himself to turn around. The American's tone was calm and sincere, but his words still hurt the boy all the same. No, the man didn't know what had happened less than a day or so ago...but did that make him innocent of being Arthur's accomplice? The thought weighed heavy on his heart and eventually he turned to look at the American over his shoulder.

"...Why?" He hated how small and pained his voice sounded, but he couldn't help it. He felt both small and his chest was constricting, making it hard to hold the tears back.

However it happened, Alfred seemed to sense this and his eyes and smile softened.

The soldier inside of Lukas hated that sympathetic look, but the child within wanted to cling to it. He'd never been the toughest kid, not like his brothers, and were it not for his family's standing he would have been subject to worse bullying than he had already endured. He wasn't the bravest; just leaving home to join the army without his parent's knowledge had taken so much on his part. Even getting through basic training had been a trial. He knew he wasn't physically strong, he was young, and his lack of build really worked against him...He hadn't been able to save the men in his unit and he hadn't even been able to avenge them when he had the chance. As far as he was concerned...he had done everything wrong that he possibly could have.

Now he was helping the enemy. He was so sick of himself he could barely stand it, so why the hell would this man be grateful to him?

"I know you were waiting with us for a long time. You could have killed us both and run away, but you didn't. I respect those who don't take advantage of the defenseless - it takes a good person to do that, especially considering we're enemies," Alfred replied and nodded his head towards Arthur, his smile growing a little. "Aside from that, putting up with Arthur isn't the easiest thing in the world and you seem to have done it in spades. You deserve a medal for that alone."

Lukas stared at the American for a while before looking away. He knew the man was trying to lighten the mood - his mood, specifically - but Lukas really didn't want to feel better at the moment. He wondered if Alfred would have been so kind in making this attempt if he knew exactly what his partner had done. Lukas had never seen such devastation before the...massacre. It was like a malicious act of God, and his faith had never been so shaken before that event. He felt a numbness washing over him at the memory, something he had noticed happen from time to time while he sat and watched the two Allied agents in their unconscious states. It came in waves, like a high tide that stifled the emotions before it swept back out to sea, leaving him raw, open, and vulnerable.

If he wasn't drowning, he was choking on air.

Silently, Lukas moved forward and began to head back for the main vein of the tunnel. His decision made, he silently listened to Alfred following behind him as they stepped out of the corridor.

Alfred was wondering if maybe he had said something offensive or if the language barrier prevented the kid from understanding what he'd meant. He felt bad that he hadn't cheered the kid up at all and sighed as he carried Arthur onward. He guessed it might be a while before the two of them could converse again...

This was going to be a long trip.

* * *

After the several hours in silence, the young German seemed to relax enough to allow the American to interact with him again. Alfred had been thankful for the break in monotony, though Lukas had signaled to him that he should keep his voice down as sound traveled easily underground.

Lukas found that this ritual had to be repeated at least three times an hour; honestly, the American had no volume control.

"So, really, the closest I've ever come to being underground like this was in California. Next to Texas, it's the biggest state back home and full of all kinds of people!" Alfred exclaimed, rambling on as Lukas was between trying to keep up and trying to quiet him down. "If you ever get the chance, you should go visit it. I'll bet you've never seen anything like San Francisco, you'll love it!"

Regardless of how interested he was in learning about America (and make no mistake he was, he'd always been fascinated by lands beyond the ones he knew), he quickly put his finger to his lips again and desperately tried to keep Alfred's voice down. They had been very lucky not to come across any wanderers or patrols this deep into the network, and Lukas wanted to avoid confrontations at all cost.

While he was longing to see his countrymen again, he didn't want the frighteningly strong American hurting them...and he was beginning to care about Alfred's wellbeing as well. The American reminded him a lot of his _Leutnant_. He bet the two would have gotten along very well, even despite the language barrier.

The thought made him miss the _Leutnant _even more, and he decided not to think about comparing Alfred to him again.

In an attempt to keep his mind off of it, Lukas decided to try again to converse in English. "I think you...should see Biebrich, _wo ich herko_ - ...ah...where...I come from."

Alfred turned to look at him, still carrying Arthur on his back like he hadn't been for the past several miles, and smiled. "Beeb-rick, huh?" Alfred replied, making Lukas frown as he butchered the name. "That sounds like a cool name. Is it a city?"

Lukas thought about it for a moment, trying to remember what a '_city_' was, and then shook his head. "_Est ist_...ah...village. It is a good size, and on the Rhine...it is in..._Preußen_ area." He hoped that made sense, he still felt self-conscious about his English speaking abilities.

Alfred knew what a village was - though in America they called them townships or just towns. He knew that the Rhine was a large river somewhere in Germany, and Prussia (since he guessed that's what "_Preußen_" meant) was a massive part of the German empire. However, as for being able to visualize these things...he honestly couldn't. Again, his lack of worldly knowledge and travel was showing and it made him a little sad. He had been pretty much an isolationist since the Revolution, even more so after the Civil War. He had sealed his boarders from anything more than trade for a long time, and he never had any desire to leave North America unless he was forced. This was the farthest he'd ever been into Europe and it was pretty much the equivalence to backpacking it underground.

Well...not that Arthur was a backpack, but the experience was pretty much the same.

"How long have you been away from home?" Alfred asked.

Lukas's expression dampened, but he still managed to answer, "Little more then one-half _Jahr_."

Alfred seemed surprised that the kid had been there longer than he had. He and Pershing had only arrived in June, and it was now...what, September? It had to be by now, they had just been wrapping up the tail end of August and the weather was getting cooler...or well, it had been the last time he'd seen it. Still, the boy had been here for what Alfred considered a long time...he felt bad for him.

Didn't his parents miss him? ...Maybe it wasn't wise to pry.

"I know you said your rank before was...uh...a '_grenadier_'? ...So, what is that, exactly? Are you an explosives specialist or something?" Alfred seemed very interested in that. How insane (and cool) would that be if the kid were a bomb expert?

Lukas flushed at that and quickly waved an arm in a gesture of frantic protest, "_Nein_, _nein_! Uh, _G-Grenadier_ _ist_...uh...pawn?" He replied, though he seemed to question his English translation.

Alfred's eyes widened. "...You mean like in Chess?"

The German smacked his forehead and groaned. "_Nein_, _nein_...bad...word use," he said, trying to come up with an English equivalent to his rank. "Uh...-! Oh! _Infanterist_- er, Infantryman!" He said suddenly, proud he remembered the word.

Again Alfred seemed surprised, but at least that rank made more sense than '_pawn_'. "Wait...you're in the infantry?"

Lukas nodded, pretty sure he'd chosen the correct word, and smiled. "_Ja_, like_ wie meine Brüder. Und mein Onkel ist Erster Generalstabsoffizier_Ludwig Beck...um...I...do not know this in English," he ended shyly, his earlier pride and enthusiasm dwindling a bit.

The American looked like he was trying to decipher Ancient Egyptian and just stared at the boy with a stupefied expression. Lukas could have given him his entire family lineage and the only words he would have understood were "_like_" and "_um_".

Ugh, that's it! When he got out of this war he was learning another damn language.

"S-sorry..." Lukas said, picking up on Alfred's distress.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Alfred quickly responded, giving him as big a smile as he could to reassure him he wasn't upset with him. "It's just...in my country we have people from all over the world who live there, Germans too, but our most-spoken language is English. I'm afraid that I never really took to learning any languages beyond that...but, hey, it's cool that you know more than one," He said, praising the boy. "I think that's awesome!"

For the first time since these two men came into his life, Lukas gave a real smile and could actually admit to himself that...he liked this American. He was odd, only spoke one language, talked a lot in high volumes and was technically his enemy...but he wasn't a bad person.

His smile was contagious and his personality was warm. Lukas felt a lot better and at that moment realized that he had almost completely forgotten they were in a war against one another.

He wished they weren't...he could use a friend like Alfred.

"_Danke_...that means _thank you_, in German," he replied.

Alfred gave a comical expression and tried his hand at the word, "_Donkey_."

Lukas's eyes widened before he threw his head back and laughed until his sides hurt, grabbing them as tears suddenly flowed from his eyes. It was hard to walk like that, but eventually he heard Alfred laughing too before a stuttered '_shh_' on Alfred's part tried to quiet him down...even though he was still laughing too.

"Shh-hh-hh! Hey, aren't you always on me about being quiet?" The American struggled to get out through his chuckling.

The German wiped his eyes, still laughing but trying to stifle it, though an ungraceful snort on his part sent him back into a fit.

Through it all, Arthur remained unconscious against Alfred's shaking form, something that amazed Lukas as he breathed out the last few giggled and dried his face.

He hadn't laughed like that in ages.

"We need...to work on your German," Lukas finally said, giving Alfred a smile before glancing back down at the map.

"What, you didn't like my _donkey_?"

Trying hard to keep from laughing again, Lukas shook his head. "Its _danke_, not '_donkey_'."

Alfred gave a dramatic sigh for effect and rolled his eyes. "Very well. Say, how much longer do we have to go? My 'rucksack' is getting heavy," he said referring to Arthur, but not looking strained in the least. He was just trying to keep the kid's cheer going.

Lukas looked back at the map and followed the trail with his eyes...then bit his lower lip. The decision he'd made when he first started leading Alfred was looking less and less...right.

He hadn't planned to take Alfred and Arthur to Arras...he meant to lead them to Cambrai, where the Germans firmly held the key supply route and had the strongest presence in this area south of Belgium. Lukas would be among allies there and could turn over the butcher of his comrades and his accomplice before informing the commanders there of what happened. He would be safe and the Allied agents would be taken into custody and likely executed.

It was the perfect plan, given Alfred seemed more gullible than the ever-suspicious Arthur (who knew much more German than Alfred, and thus would be harder to fool)...

"Hey, there's a fork up ahead," Alfred's voice came, breaking his thoughts as he looked up at the duel paths before them. "Which way should we go?"

There was a suspended moment of silence as Lukas made his second decision since being rendered commander-less.

The young man turned and began heading down the right path, "Follow me...we have time...I can teach you more German."

Alfred smiled, and fell in step beside the boy-soldier.

To Be Continued…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Woooooow…that only took me like, forever and a day 'n a half…=^_^;= I actually meant to finish this up and have it sent out to my Beta on Sunday…buuuut…well, if you're American or know anything about American Football…8DDD LAST SUNDAY WAS SUPER BOWL XLV! *stops screaming in awesomeness for a moment and blushes at the cricket chirping* =_= What? DX I'm an NFL fan, so sue me. I know my team didn't make it this year (*sigh* Oh my Philadelphia Eagles, why must you disappoint me every year?) but my Dad's team made it and so I cheered on the Green Bay Packers (who, ironically enough, crushed my beloved Eagle's Super Bowl dreams). I am pleased to report; Green Bay fought a hard game against the Pittsburgh Steelers and won (sorry if you're a Steelers fan, just know that MY team didn't win the Lambardi either XP…again). Oooookay, back to apologizing for my tardiness…SORRY THERE ISN'T MUCH ACTION IN THIS CHAPTER! After the slaughter fest of the last one, I figured a tinsie-bit of a cool down period was in order. So I started ya'll off with a light and sweet appetizer, then followed up with a heavy hot plate of juicy angst beef (lol), and ended with a fun filled dessert…with an after-dinner mint of cliffhanger thrown in. X3 No charge.

AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY GLORIOUS BETA EDITOR**Lady Hedervary**! You rock my world!

Alrighty, before I get into the notes, I'd like to say that this chapter is dedicated to my German advisor MelodyofStarshine. XD She's been so wonderful and patient in correcting my rusty 'ol German for ya'll to enjoy, and I cannot thank her enough for all she does. So, THANK YOU AGAIN, MELODYofSTARSHINE! This one's for you! 3

Now…ON WITH THE NOTES!

Alright, first I wanna say…I had to rewrite that flashback scene no less than 3 times before I settled on this one (and even then I'm not 100% happy with it, but I feel I can do no better at the present time). There is a lot of foreshadowing here as well as relevance to the current events (something I try to do with all of the flashback scenes to give voice to the things Arthur and Alfred won't say to each other in their current relationship). SEE, THERE IS A POINT TO IT! As to the meaning and what connections there are to be made…I leave that to my readers who often make more impressive assumptions than I do; XD I positively LOVE reading them. Anyway, the flash back is in the time period at the tail end of the North American Theater of the Seven Years War. There are several Hetalia versions out there (including the cannon), but in mine this is a glimpse of how it ended. The original kick off (to use an American Football expression) had been between British American/Colonial troops vs. a small unit of French soldiers at the Battle of Jumonville Glen (which ended with the British American troops –lead by none other than the man who would become our first president…some 30 years after). Because British American troops were the match that exploded the flammable atmosphere, Britain was obligated to do something about it…aaaaaand happily declared war on France/New France with the design for ultimate continental conquest. Go England; such a peace-seeker. Now begins the Seven Years War/ French-Indian War (as its called in America) that would determine which empire reigned supreme in North America. (HEY! 10,000th word of the chapter! XD WOOT!) The war lasted for…well…seven years, but ultimately ended with Britain gaining control of all French holdings in modern day Canada (with Louisiana going to Spain), Spain forked over Florida to Britain (I always chuckle at that), and the rights to explore lands west of the Appalachians were granted to said victor (…this has to be the most abridged version of the Seven Years War ever; for a more complete version, here's another shameless shout of for KitakLaw's "After the Conqueror" ). Needless to say…this caused a lot of stress and tension with the people of New France/Canada, and while the American Colonies were livin' up the victory…yeah, that didn't last long. Anyway, in regards to Hetalia…X3 I'm gonna be cheeky and save it for next chapter ;). But let's just say if you remember 6 you'll know why Arthur is so upset.

Yes, America is a land of Freedom of Religion, but at the time I imagine Alfred (like most colonists at the time) was a Protestant Christian. (The battle between Protestants and Catholics in North America around this time was one of the big reasons Britain was so worried about Canada rebelling against then; most French-Canadians were Catholic unlike their Protestant British counter parts.)

Sorry for the um…gross anatomical lesson…BUT, you know me; I always do my best to explain the wonders of the human body. Osseous tissue is the hard compact material that makes up the outside portion of the bone. Inside of the bones is a really spongie collection of porous tissue that the veins, blood vessels, and arteries run through…another reason why breaking a bone hurts like bloody HELL (take it from someone who's done it…in 4 areas; always wear protective gear and helmets, kids…just saying). Now, the rib cage is actually a really cool thing, 83 its like armor for your lungs, heart, and all that good stuff in the upper and mid torso. It attaches in two places, at the spine in the back and the sternum in the front. Both connections are made with flexible…uh…suction cup like cartilage that allows movement…XD so you can inhale and exhale, thus expanding and compressing your chest. When you break a rib, ya gotta worry about the jagged fractures puncturing the soft tissue it normally protects (which, in Alfred's case, happened). This is really dangerous. Also, the ilium is the wing part of the pelvis (or hip bone, if ya like) and breaking that…sucks balls and takes a loooong time to heal. Alfred's got a shizbotnian load more injuries, but I think I'll pause it here since going through the muscle and other tissue damages would take up like…a couple pages. =_= … =_= Poor Alfred. 8D BUT AT LEAST HE'S UP AND MOVING! Yay! And don't worry, Arthur will be up and at'em too! …=.= Eventually…

Okay, California mines! If you don't know much about the States, then know now that each of the 50 States has an official nickname – California's is "The Golden State", and there's a reason. GOLD RUSH! The Gold Rush was a huge draw for people to move from the east to the west, and mines still liter the State. So, when Alfred makes that reference to "California mines", that's what he's talking about. RANDOM FACT: New Jersey (where I come from) is known as "The Garden State" (even though the only real gardens you'll see are in the southern part), Florida (where I currently live) is "The Sunshine State" (and aptly named…much to my displeasure…=-_-;= I hate the heat), aaaand my FAVORITE State, Pennsylvania, is "The Keystone State" (because it was the "keystone" of the original 13 colonies and Philadelphia was ACTUALLY our first capital! 8D).

Ta-da! Our little German boy has a name…even a lineage! While Lukas is 100% my own original O.C. (*sweating bullets* You have no idea how difficult that was for me to add in here) his lineage is real. Any WWII buffs out there will know the name Beck, so I'll leave that to either your imaginations or to tantalize your historical taste buds. X3 Up to you: keep him a secret or look him up. Either way, my lips are sealed as to why my brilliant (*coughs-not-coughs*) self did that. As for the notes on him, Lukas is experiencing something called "shell-shock", or the modern day term of "acute traumatic stress" and "survivor's guilt". His emotions are a little haywire as he's torn between a million different inner conflicts and a massive external one all at the same time. Couple that with the fact the kid just got out of the first stages of puberty, this is all very difficult for him to deal with at the moment. ): I feel bad for him…and to think he was originally suppose to die in the previous chapter…=_= Oops, that totally slipped out there. XP

Alfred doesn't know another language, at least not fluently. Sadly, not many Americans are fluent in another language either, =T_T= *sigh*. Anywho, the most spoken language in America is English, the second most spoken language in America is Spanish, and rounding it out at number 3 is a surprising tie between German and French. Contrary to popular belief, the United States does NOT have an "official language", meaning the federal government has not declared a national language. While nearly all business and all government is run in English, it's mostly because it is our founding language and the most spoken. Just more fun facts…and the reason Alfred is so Germanly-uninclined. XD "_Donkey_". *Giggles*

Cambrai was a French area occupied by the Germans and held from the start of the war until the end. Allied attempts to take the city all failed, however they were able to gain the grounds around the area and eventually used that land to penetrate the Hindenburg. Cambrai was also where the respective sides took the most number of British and German prisoners at one time. The Germans utilized their "Storm Troopers" (as opposed to the "Shock Troopers" the Germans dubbed the Canadians) to surprise exhausted troops under the cover of darkness, and in small groups that stealthily flanked units while their attention was focused on the front. Cambrai was an area not terribly far from Arras (within 52.9km or 32.8705 mi), and given the city's history as a German strong hold (not to mention a prison camp) I thought it a good place for Lukas to keep in mind if he…well…ya know, goes through with plan one. DX I'm kind of hoping he doesn't, but ya never know with O.C.s, especially after ya'll got to see what's going through his head right now. He likes Alfred, but he's not a fan of Arthur (for obvious reasons)…*biting nails* We'll have to see what happens. =.=

TRANSLATION TIME! Thank you again MelodyofStarshine for checking these over for me! As always, YOU ARE WONDERFUL!

1.) "_Er ist verletzt, nicht tot! Nicht tot_!" ("He is injured, not dead! Not dead!")

2.) "_Mein Name_?" ("My name?")

3.) "_Grenadier_ Lukas Beck...um..._E-es freut mich, Sie kennenzulernen_." ("Grenadier" is the equivalent army rank to an Infantryman or a Private in America. The last part was a German greeting I remember that was something like "It is very nice to meet you". XD He might be freaked out by Alfred, but at least he's polite)

4.) "_Im Süden des Arras_." ("South of Arras")

5.) "..._Ich weiß nicht_..." ("I don't know...")

6.) "_Oberleutnant_" (The English equivalent to this in the American Army is "First Lieutenant", which is pretty up there on the food chain)

7.) "_Leutnant_" (This is like our rank of "Lieutenant", which is just below "First Lieutenant" in the American Army)

8.) "_Bitte Schön_" ("You're welcome", in a very formal way)

8.5) "_Jahr_" ("Year")

9.) "_Ach du grüne Neune_" ( XD Okay, I know this makes no sense in English, but it is a common German expression my German advisor suggested and I just HAD to add it. Literally translated it's "Oh you green nine", but the English equivalent –metaphorically speaking- is "Good God". XD See, even I'm learning things in this RP!)

10.) "_Biebrich, wo ich herko_-" ("Biebrich where I come-" He cuts himself off in saying he comes from Biebrich...which was part of Prussia at the time. XD)

11.) "_Ja, wie meine Brüder. Und mein Onkel ist Erster Generalstabsoffizier_ Ludwig Beck-" ("Yes, like my brothers. And my uncle is First General Staff Officer Ludwig Beck-")

Alrighty folks, and that's all I wrote! XD LOL! Chapter 12 HAS been started and I hope to have it up by the end of the week…or…well, at least by this time next week. =T_T= I'm trying to keep my updates consistent, but its getting tough. XP Promise I'm trying though! As always, I wanna thank everyone who reviewed, faved, subscribed or just dropped by to read. I know I owe several of you review replies, D8 I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU! Please know that I really do read every review and try to reply as soon as possible. Thank you all so much again and I hope this chapter was to your liking. TILL NEXT TIME!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Violence, and Extremely Long Notes Section ^^;

Chapter Twelve Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ _Grenadier_ Lukas Beck

-Last one is a surprise ;)

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XII

_"Why can't I find my way home?"_

When he was a child, he'd been told the story of a man named Daedalus. He worked for the king of Ancient Crete and was ordered by said king to construct the most elaborate prison known to men and gods. Apparently, Daedalus's masterpiece was so good he even got himself trapped in the damn thing. To add insult to injury, a mere Athenian Romeo managed to find his way out with no trouble, thanks to a little string from the Cretian Juliet.

Of course the prick ended up dumping Juliet for his mother, but that's beside the point.

Point being, Alfred was more convinced then ever that Daedalus was out for revenge and reincarnated as a German. These tunnels were killing him! Everywhere he looked it was dirt, dirt, and more dirt. At one point he'd been absolutely convinced they had passed the same cluster of dirt particles for the third time in the span of an hour, but his companion assured him that he was just _verrückt_ and they needed to keep moving. While Alfred was going mad in his sunless prison, Lukas only seemed to be getting more and more nervous. It was a drastic change since the first leg of the journey.

After the first few miles, the two had been happily teaching each other German and English, passing what felt like days poking fun at each other's accents and failed attempts to pronounce various words.

Alfred's main difficulties were _Krankenschwester_ (which sounded to him like the name of a sea monster), _Mannschaft_ (that sent him into fits of laughter), and _schiffahrt_ wasn't much better. On the other hand, Lukas seemed to fumble over footsie, flicker, and shave; which made no sense to Alfred as to why he'd get so flustered with them.

But in all, it made for good laughs.

The journey was long and while Alfred could have kept going through most of it without stopping (even with Arthur and the gear on his back), Lukas had to stop for rest every now and then. Alfred never denied the kid break, even though Lukas was loathed to take them. When Lukas would begin to fall quiet and sway in his steps, or look at the map as though it were making him cross-eyed, Alfred would point out how lovely a little patch of dirt down yonder looked and that they should kick back there. While his strange American sayings always confused him, Lukas would understand his meaning and protest that they needed to keep moving. Alfred admired the young German's brave attempts against his human frailties, but Alfred knew that the exhaustion overcoming the lad did not bode well for his health...and a rested navigator was a good one, so he needed Lukas's head on straight and not about to crash into a wall.

Sometimes Alfred faked fatigue or pain in his long since healed injuries to get Lukas to stop long enough to rest. Once Lukas had realized that Alfred had been acting, the American had had to plop down on the ground, situate Arthur, and refuse to move until Lukas had taken at least an hour break. While Lukas always became frustrated and fussed over the child-like behavior, his fatigue never ceased to get the better of him, forcing him to sit down opposite of Alfred...and fall asleep.

Alfred always let him sleep as long as he needed, keeping a constant watch over him and his British companion. It seemed that since his stint of unconsciousness after the calamity, he'd been completely rejuvenated and actually felt himself getting stronger every day. He guessed that he must have been out for a really long time...and every time he looked at Arthur he hoped that when he woke up he would feel just as good. He knew Arthur had never really recovered after Somme, and while he still didn't know all the details, he did know that Arthur had been hurt badly enough to have died. Alfred didn't know what dying was like, but he did know that when he was seriously hurt or ill he only recovered as fast as his nation's strength allowed. The British Empire, right now...

All of his armies, dominions, and strength were here...and right now they were all on the loosing side of the war.

Arthur was on the nation equivalent of life-support and Alfred knew the older nation was well aware of it. Alfred had only just discovered the truth of his old mentor's condition after the meeting in Paris, and even then the full extent of it hadn't sunk in until now. Arthur had worked himself past his physical brink and completely shut down. There was so much damage to repair that Alfred couldn't even fathom a guess as to when he'd wake up again. The American felt like he was racing the clock; he had to kill Germany before Arthur's strength completely gave out and he fell because he had nothing left. He remembered Arthur's words in Paris, how he would have to set aside his conscience and think like a nation if he wanted to end this war and go home.

Though right now...going home didn't mean as much to him as saving Arthur.

He still had a hard time coming to terms with the thought of trading Germany's life, and through him thousands of German lives, for the Englishman's and the human Allies. Every time he looked at Arthur he felt like he could do it, but then he looked at Lukas, either patiently teaching him German, laughing at his awkwardness, or sleeping across from him...and he faltered. If he managed to pull off a miracle and kill Germany...would Lukas or the other child-soldiers like him die too? His stomach soured every time he thought about it; he looked at Lukas and thought about what a great kid he was, how strangely innocent he was despite the uniform he wore or the knife on his back. He had come from a nice place in Prussia, had a large family he talked about with pride, and wanted to be an engineer or scientist someday. He really liked to read, was studying English and French (his French was much better than his English, to Alfred's dismay), and had a collection of coins his uncle had given him from his travels around the world. Lukas never had a girlfriend, but he did fancy a young lady from his hometown that he was too shy to approach. Alfred hadn't ever dated himself (he never really thought about romantic stuff, given he was either constantly locked in the political battles of Washington or running away from them), but he encouraged Lukas to give saying "howdy" a try as soon as he got back.

If he killed Germany...would Lukas ever get that chance?

The good mood they had developed during the trip began to fade as time went on. Into what had to be day three or four, the sound of footsteps marching down one of the tunnels up ahead sent the pair scrambling for cover. It took a lot of back tracking before they found an off shoot corridor to hunker down in until the group of Germans passed. It had been hard for Alfred to let them continue deeper into Allied lines, but every time he had the urge to pull a gun and go after them he turned and looked at Lukas's pleading face. Needless to say, it quelled him. Arthur was still unconscious, which would have made fighting down here dangerous anyway...Yeah, he was doing this for Arthur, not because he couldn't stand to see Lukas silently begging him like that.

Not because he felt guilty that he might be inadvertently killing him when he faced Germany.

Since moving on from that point some day and a half ago, neither one of them had spoken much. It wasn't just because the moment reminded them that they were technically enemies, it also reminded them how close they were to grounds currently being fought over above. For Alfred, he could sense the proximity of Allies getting stronger and it made him long to get topside. For Lukas, he was getting ever the more worried since he knew the Line wasn't much farther into the network...and he was on the wrong side of it.

Finally, when the tunnels split yet again, Lukas lead Alfred down the path heading right and after a few hours of walking he drew himself up to a stop, making Alfred halt a few feet behind him.

The American blinked and cocked his head to the side, "What's wrong? ...Are you tired?" He asked with a wary bit of concern.

Lukas didn't respond for a moment, and Alfred was beginning to think something was seriously wrong.

The optimistic part of him argued that maybe Lukas was hungry or something; Alfred had given him the only emergency rations he had after Lukas's ran out a while ago. After all he was a nation and still riding the recovery high, so Alfred could likely go another month without eating...but Lukas couldn't. Humans needed fuel often to keep going, so there was no hesitation when Alfred pushed the rations onto the resistant lad. The kid was proud and Alfred got the impression he was trying not to show weakness in front of another soldier, but Alfred was relentless about his well being and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Though right now, he'd take any answer from him.

"Lukas?"

The young man seemed to come back to himself and shook his head, reaching up with one hand to rub his eyes before sighing and turning back to his American companion. Alfred raised an eyebrow in question, but Lukas only gave him a small smile and grabbed his own right arm, looking terribly young again.

"Sorry, Alfred...we are here."

Alfred continued giving him an apprehensive look, "Where's here?"

Lukas gestured with his head towards the darkened tunnel behind him before looking down at the ground. He was biting his lower lip again and it made Alfred nervous...why, exactly, he wasn't sure.

"...Is the way out up ahead?" Alfred asked after looking Lukas over for a moment.

Lukas nodded, but still didn't say anything.

"...And what's there once we're out?" Alfred asked, feeling his heart sink a little before adding, "Allies or Germans?"

At that, Lukas's head snapped up and he immediately flushed. Alfred would have taken it as a sign of guilt had Lukas not so quickly made a show of waving his hands and protesting in a frantic manner.

"No, no! I-..." He was biting his lower lip again and looking away. "...I almost did...but..." Lukas sighed and deflated, "I could not...bring myself to do it."

The American cocked his head to the side curiously, but waited for the boy to collect himself and explain his intentions.

"Cambari is not far from here, and it is where I intended to go since the start," Lukas began, looking both sad and ashamed, though more of himself then his plan. "Your _Freund_, Arthur, did something...terrible...I think not terrible in terms of war, but terrible in that...it wronged me...it wronged _meine Freunde_..."

Alfred could tell he was struggling with the words, both because he had to speak them in English and that he had to speak them at all. He had a feeling Arthur had done something pretty...Arthur-like that landed the kid with them, but he hadn't wanted to speculate on the details.

He was learning way too much about his former caretaker then he ever wanted to know.

"I was angry, both towards him and myself. I wanted him to..._leiden_," Lukas continued and brought Alfred's focus back to him. "But I suppose...if I were Arthur...I would have killed many Allies to protect _auch_ _meine_ _Freunde_. To..." He struggled to find the words again before settling, "blame him would be..._nicht_ _richtig_...You, Alfred, did not wrong me or _meine Freunde_...to _bestrafen_ you would be_ nicht_ _richtig_..." He hung his head and closed his eyes, "I am sorry..."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Alfred hadn't understood every word, but he understood the boy's meaning well enough. Lukas never rose his head, he continued to look tired and slumped, but in a way...Alfred sensed a kind of relief. It seemed that whatever decision he had made out of anger some time ago had eroded his conviction and left him doubting for a long time. Alfred didn't know at what point Lukas had changed the decision that seemed like it was going to spare him and Arthur, but that seemed to be the one Lukas found himself accepting with a melancholy sense of peace. Lukas must have known that revealing this to him might result in Alfred taking action against him in retaliation for the near betrayal, but he had still done it anyway.

Lukas had struck Alfred as an honest kid from the beginning...

He wasn't about to punish honesty.

"You know...I'm not stupid. I had the feeling for a while that something like this was up."

Lukas winced and screwed his eyes tighter, as though expecting to be struck. When nothing came, he slowly opened them again and looked up at the American who was now standing close before him. Alfred's face didn't convey anger or a need for retaliation, it simply looked like it always did: a warm smile, bright eyes that always seemed to be laughing, and not a single ounce of tension in his body. He hadn't reached for a gun, in fact his arms were still wrapped around Arthur's legs in support, and he looked down at Lukas without any accusation or loathing.

Lukas was between awe and wondering why someone like Alfred was in this war to begin with. Neither of them seemed fit to be soldiers...neither one of them belonged here.

"Thank you. For everything you did and giving Arthur and I a chance, thank you."

The knife Lukas always felt in his gut whenever he thought about leading Alfred to Cambari seemed to vanish. Whenever Alfred thanked him, laughed with him, or simply smiled at him, he felt terrible pain with each step he took towards the German side of the Line. Every time Alfred showed him kindness the closer they got to the north, Lukas heard his conscience scream and his soul wither a little more. He wanted to hate Alfred as much as he hated Arthur, but the more he began to feel a kind of friendship with the American more his hate for the Brit seemed to ebb. It was very difficult to remember Arthur covered in blood and yelling at him when Alfred handled him so gently and constantly threw worried glances back at the unconscious man.

Sometimes, when he was slowly waking up after a brief rest, he heard Alfred talking to the Englishman as if he could hear him. He would talk about memories they must have shared from places and times foreign to the German, and sometimes what he brought up was sad enough to make Alfred look like he was reliving it. There was one time when Lukas had pretended to be asleep for almost a half hour and just listened to Alfred talk. Alfred had been apologizing for not being there sooner, for holding out for so long because he'd been afraid of coming to Europe and turning into one of "them" or worse...failing. Lukas wasn't sure what to make of it, he had always assume the American has been forced by his government to come here like many soldiers on both sides. But the omission had puzzled him and had him again wondering just who Alfred and Arthur really were...what they were and what they were to each other. Considering they were from different sides of the Atlantic, Lukas scarcely understood how they could be so close. He still didn't know, but he did know that the well-being of one another seemed vital to them...and they were both willing to go to extremes to see to it.

It was almost like they were family, and it made Lukas miss his own that much more.

Lukas came back to himself when Alfred took a knee in front of him. He didn't seem bothered by the weight on his back in this position at all, and removed one arm from beneath Arthur's leg to reach up and undo the button on his left breast pocket. Lukas watched curiously as Alfred withdrew a small copper coin and palmed it in his hand. The German watched as Alfred smiled nostalgically at the object, thumbing it one last time before reaching out to offer it to the boy.

Lukas's eyes widened a fraction and he looked from the coin back to Alfred questioningly.

Alfred smiled, "It was one of the first pennies minted in 1909. I didn't get it directly from the Mint, it had passed through a few American hands before it found mine, but its the first one I saw with President Lincoln on it...so I kept it and have had it on me ever since." He said and slid the coin up to hold between his thumb and index finger. "I won't be offended if you don't know who he is, but suffice to say he was one of the greatest leaders in my country's history and a man known for his love of freedom and peace...things I hold very dearly." The last he said with added warmth to his voice that made Lukas feel as if Alfred was much, much older than he appeared.

The German looked down at the coin and thought of just how important it must be to Alfred to have carried it all these years. He had seen many coins from all over the world in the collection his uncle had given him. He had some from Russia, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Italy, North Africa, and even some from France and England. All of them were so unique and had some depiction of their nation's symbol, something Lukas had found so beautiful when he admired the craftsmanship of each design. As he looked down at the one in Alfred's hand, he saw the profile of an older man on the dulled surface. He had short hair, a beard, and what Lukas decided was a calm and sagely expression on his face. The words along the top of the image were easy for him to make out and he found...he liked them.

'_In God We Trust_'. Lincoln's tranquil unblinking gaze seemed to echo his nation's motto.

Slowly, Alfred reached down and pressed the penny into the open palm at Lukas's side. The boy seemed startled, but closed his hand around the small metal disk as Alfred's pulled away. Lukas looked flustered and found himself unsure of how to react.

"Why-"

"Call it a '_good luck_' token," Alfred said, still smiling as he interjected. "I know your uncle gave you a lot of coins, but I bet you don't have a lucky one from America. The man on it, Lincoln, is a hero where I come from...and since you've been a hell of a lot more heroic then I've been in this war, I figure maybe he'd feel more at home with you."

Alfred's words both surprised and...humbled him. This man seemed to be one Alfred greatly respected, and this symbol of him seemed just as important. That Alfred wanted to...give it to him because he thought he was heroic...he didn't understand.

He wasn't heroic. He trembled in the face of Arthur's revolver on him and even pleaded for his life when he knew it was a trigger-pull away from ending. He had been too scared to run and risk being shot, and he had followed Arthur's orders because he hadn't known what else to do. When he had the chance to avenge his comrades he couldn't bring himself to do it...on three occasions. Now he was helping his enemies escape from German imprisonment, even possible execution, and passing up his chance for accreditation for bringing important enemy soldiers into his people's custody. Nothing about him or what he'd done had been heroic, so why...why was Alfred saying such things?

"By alliance standards, what you've done could be considered bad; but by human standards, you're the bravest kid I know."

Lukas looked up again and felt his chest constricting. Alfred's sky-blue eyes were still bright and so sincere. There was an odd essence to Alfred's words that made Lukas believe them, that he wasn't just saying something to compliment him, but that he really meant it. Alfred might have acted carefree and young for his years, but looking at him so closely like this, Lukas felt an age to him that he'd never noticed before. It was like talking to a greater spirit in a human guise, or feeling as though he were in the presence of a high king in peasant clothes who had just knighted him. It was so different from the usual feeling he had around Alfred, and a sudden unexplainable wash of humility overcame him.

He gripped the coin a little tighter and wanted to thank the American for his gift...but found no words with which to speak. While he was at a loss for words there was no shortage of feelings, and they seemed to be more than enough for Alfred.

The American wrapped his arm beneath Arthur's leg again and pushed himself effortlessly to his feet. Lukas kept his eyes downcast, as if in respect, as the American pulled away and stepped to the side of the German. There was a moment where Lukas thought that would be the end of it, but Alfred gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder to make him look back up.

Alfred's smile never wavered, and Lukas couldn't help but smile back, "Take care of yourself, Lukas. Germany's lucky to have a man like you on their side."

Lukas fingered the penny in his grip and his smile became a bit wider, "Same to you, Alfred._ Leb wohl, mein Freund_."

With another smile and a nod of respect, Alfred turned down the path behind Lukas and kept heading away from the young German watching him disappear into the darkness.

The sound of footsteps faded and left Lukas standing alone in the tunnel, map and lantern in one hand and his American penny in the other.

Slowly, Lukas opened his hand and held the coin up as he ran his thumb over the engraving of the man on the copper face.

"_In Deutschland, Herr Lincoln, sagen wir _'Gott mit uns '_...aber ich denke_, 'In God we Trust' _funktioniert auch_."

* * *

The young man pocketed the coin in his left breast-pocket, as Alfred had done, before heading back down the tunnel, opposite the American. His path took him back into the network, heading northeast for Cambrai.

After a good forty-five minutes of traveling, Alfred put an extra spring in his step when the darkness began to loose its thickness and the smell of something other than dirt came to him. The path Lukas had sent him down was a straight shot back to the surface, and Alfred couldn't be anymore grateful for it as he felt the earth beneath him begin an incline. Arthur was still out cold, but Alfred was optimistic that he would be waking up soon, maybe some fresh air would help move him along a little faster.

A few minutes more had Alfred practically running as a faint stream of light cut through the darkness up ahead, making Alfred's heart leap when he saw the outline of a ladder. It was literally the end of the tunnel and the American couldn't wait to get out of it.

The ladder was a lot like the ones in the trench Arthur had trained him in - a simple construction of wooden boards embedded within the compacted dirt wall. The ladder was a pain in the butt to climb with just himself, but now he had to get Arthur up too and it looked like the ladder stretched pretty far. While this made Alfred frown, he wasn't about to let his mood be killed on account of a little extra problem solving between him and the open sky. He really hoped Arthur was completely out for a little longer...it would kind of suck if the man woke up and started flailing about while Alfred was trying to climb this thing.

Carefully, Alfred knelt and slid Arthur off his back, pulling him around so they were torso to torso, then hauled the Brit up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. It was a little awkward at first, given he had to not only balance Arthur but the rifles and gear on his person too. Eventually, he situated his load so it wasn't smacking him in the face or sending him off kilter. This position was a lot more practical considering the task at hand; with Alfred's hands free he could concentrate on pulling up each rung rather than dropping Arthur.

He _really_ didn't want to drop Arthur. The man would likely claim his first death if he did.

The ascension was slow at first, but eventually Alfred built up a steady rhythm and rose closer and closer to the ever-stronger light above. After being underground for...days? Weeks? Hell, it could have been a month and he would have never known. Right now his goal was to get topside and stay there...indefinitely. Being so deep beneath the earth was cold and suffocating, kind of reminding him of the rest of this damn war. The tunnels beneath France had to be the largest crypt in the world, and he was more than happy to say goodbye to them.

His shoulder was beginning to ache from all the weight, but nothing could have lessened his elation when he reached the last board and pushed up against the mesh surface above him.

The mouth of the shaft had been covered with a thin sheet of brown netting camouflaged by a layer of dirt. Alfred grabbed the stiff fabric as best he could and after several yanks managed to push the sheet aside. Cool dusk air washed over him and gelatinized the sweat on his face. His hair caught the breeze for the first time in ages and his eyes beheld an obstruction-less sky.

The nighttime canopy over France never looked so good.

Alfred strained as he tried to find purchase with the dusty earth around him, finally managing to haul Arthur and his upper body out of the hole before grabbing Arthur by the back of his uniform and easing him down to the ground. That done, Alfred emerged and collapsed on his back next to the Brit.

His skin felt slick and overheated, his uniform was constricting again, and for the first time in a while he was tired. But he was happy. He was so damn happy and closed his eyes to soak in the freedom of the sky. The moon had risen and bathed France in a silver veil of soft light. Alfred thought the fall of moonlight might have been tangible as small droplets of moisture collected on his exposed skin. It must have rained recently or was about to...

He finally opened his eyes after a while and just stared at space above him.

When he had been a child, left alone after the Native children returned to their tribes, he would look up at the sky and talk to the moon and stars as if they were his friends. The beings in the sky never ran away from him or left the world indefinitely as humans who grew old did. The world above him was one he could always count on to never abandon him. It was comforting to see the sun every morning and the moon every evening, they were the only constants in a world that continued to change around him. Most people feared change, and he did too to an extent...but so long as there was one constant in his world, he could face any change time threw at him.

A lot of people were afraid of the sky...space...some even of Heaven supposedly above it all too. Alfred could look up forever and never be afraid. The sky was limitless, free, and liberating. He watched birds take to the sky with a mixture of admiration and envy, wishing he had wings like that to defy gravity and have the ultimate freedom.

He remembered when he watched from afar as the first manned aircraft took flight in North Carolina, the pride he felt could barely be contained. His people, his Americans had been the first to grow wings and fly...even if he hadn't been the pilot, he still felt the excitement and the joy of the man who had. His promise decades before had been fulfilled through his people and their amazing inventions. Someday he'd take to the sky as they did, as so many around the world did now, and he'd be the best. He'd rule the sky and then take his ambitions to space!

On nights after he had run away from Washington, he remembered riding on horseback through the fields of Nebraska or sitting on the roof of a barn in Montana. He would watch the moon drift across the sky all-night and still be watching when the sun rose the next morning...it reminded him of his promise: space was real and therefore obtainable, and someday he'd get it.

If he fought hard enough, anything was possible...even someday getting the chance to thank the moon personally for keeping him company all those years ago.

All those years he hadn't had Arthur...Arthur who had become a new consistent in this turbulent world.

Through all the tension, conflict, and even the blood letting between them, they always managed to wind up together in the end. With the Revolution, Alfred thought he had lost connection with his former sovereign forever. When 1812 rolled around, he again thought that would be the true end of it. He thought the same thing over and over again as one crisis bled into another, one more war or conflict of interest became another bone of contention, and yet here they were...fighting side by side for the first time since...well, forever.

It should have felt strange to him, but it didn't. He got the sense that it was always meant to be this way, even though he had been drug kicking and screaming into it. If there really had been a choice for him, knowing all he knew now...he liked to think he would have joined earlier, if only to prevent all the suffering taking place at present.

Laughable as it was, given how inexperienced he and his troops were, he still felt like he could have done something to spare so many so much pain if only he had done something sooner.

He wanted to believe he lived a life with no regrets, but he knew better. He regretted a lot of things...

He smirked at the thought. He could rule the sky and host ambitions about taking space with confidence, but the thought of matters here in the world made him feel small and unsure. Arthur would surly laugh at him if he knew, probably tell him he had no future in the clouds unless he was heading for the afterlife. He couldn't help it though, life isolating himself from the world left him only with his dreams and the sky he'd known longer than the East or West. He had been lonely again when he cut himself off from other nations...but daydreams and the sky had never hurt him, the world, however, seemed to do nothing but.

Why was the cost of companionship...so painful?

He didn't know how long he spent lying there next to Arthur, staring up at the sky and watching the moon flow across it, but he knew he couldn't stay there forever when there was too much to be done. A lot of people were counting on him, and while he hadn't wanted the responsibility in the first place he had it now and there was no going back.

Tired of remembering all the things he lamented, Alfred rolled to his side and pushed himself to his feet. Arthur hadn't so much as twitched since coming topside, and Alfred sighed before carefully lifting his companion. Placing him back on his back for easier carrying, Alfred began trudging north as Lukas had instructed when Alfred had first asked him about Arras. Hopefully the Allies still held the city and could help them get to Belgium.

It was too much to hope any of them could help Arthur, but Alfred knew Arthur's affliction was not something humans could cure...well...they could win the war and that ought to perk Arthur up, but other than that there was little else.

Having to give up the beautiful view of the sky for the landscape around him, Alfred sighed again and beheld the desolation that covered most of the France he'd seen. The crater spattered earth, ash covered ground, and demolished forests and dust choked rivers...

When this was over, maybe he'd take Arthur back to America and show him what real beauty was like. Both in the land and the sky above.

* * *

The land felt as endless as the tunnel, each step that took him farther north seemed to add another mile to his journey. The zenith of the night had come and gone, the sun was peering over the horizon to his right, and the coolness of the night began to fade as the warmth of dawn approached. Alfred wished some trees had remained of the forest, if for no other reason then their color would help him decide if autumn had come. They had left Paris during the tail end of summer, but Alfred had lost all track of time after the attack on the train that left him waking up underground. The longer Alfred carried Arthur the more he wondered just how far Arthur had carried him while he'd been unconscious.

He knew Arthur had been hurt when he took charge of getting him to safety...The thought left him unable to complain about returning the favor to the Brit now.

Alfred had headed towards the river when he left the tunnel behind and continued along it under the assumption that any civilization up head would be along or near the banks. When the entirety of the sun's face rose from the east, the sound of an engine piqued Alfred's attention as he scanned the slightly orange landscape for the source. When he realized it was behind him, Alfred turned and squinted as a distant green shape was quickly approaching. His first instinct was to find cover, and fast, but there was nothing around him on this barren landscape. He cursed to himself and quickly darted towards the lowest point he could see, a barely hollowed out crater, and set Arthur down before unslinging a rifle from the Brit's back. Getting as low as he could, pressing his body into the dirt, he kept the stock firmly against his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the ever nearing vehicle.

The moment he saw the round white circle with a giant red cross in the center, his eyes widened and he quickly leapt to his feet.

The vehicle drew closer and seemed to be slowing down, especially when Alfred clamored out of the ditch and made a show of keeping his weapon's muzzle to the ground and waving his free hand. He watched as the bulky vehicle slowed to a near crawl, lessening the dust cloud behind it, making him beam as it halted not far from him. It was smart of the driver to keep a bit of a distance and analyze the lone soldier flagging him down in the middle of no where, which told Alfred that the driver had to have been here a while.

Taking the hint, Alfred dropped his rifle and rose both hands, palms out, to show he was unarmed. It seemed to satisfy whoever was inside as two men got out of the lightly armored vehicle and approached him. He could see that one of them was wearing what looked like a British issue military uniform, the other was wearing something similar, but his insignia was the same as on the truck, meaning he was with the Red Cross.

It made sense considering the soldier was giving him suspicious eyes while the other was immediately looking him over for injuries.

As they approached, Alfred decided to break the silence and ease any concerns they had, "Man, am I glad to see you guys. My name's Alfred, I only speak English and I'm American. I've got a friend who's injured and needs to get to Arras as soon as possible. Are you guys headin' that way?"

Both men looked surprised, but while the solider immediately reigned himself in, the Red Cross member quickly asked about his injured companion with some kind of thick accent Alfred couldn't pin down. Alfred immediately gestured with his head towards the ditch and put his hands down after the soldier told him to lead on. Alfred was more than happy to and ran back to Arthur with the soldier while the volunteer returned to the truck to bring it closer.

Arthur was right where Alfred had left him, still unconscious, and the soldier Alfred had brought immediately began helping Alfred pull him out of the crater upon seeing the British insignia on Arthur's uniform. This would have supported Alfred's guess that the man was British, but the flag on his uniform was completely red with the Union Jack miniaturized in the upper corner...which meant he was from a dominion. Personally, Alfred didn't give a damn where he was from, he was just grateful he was there.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Arthur settled on a litter provided by the volunteer and got the Englishman into the enclosed bed of the truck. Alfred recognized the model; it was a Rover Sunbeam Ambulance, a British design but something not unknown in the States. It kind of looked like a Rolls-Royce cab with a giant canvased wagon attached. Of course the thing was made bumper to tailpipe in steel, but Alfred still couldn't get the image of a wagon out of his head. Not that he minded, he didn't have anything against wagons.

The soldier took up his seat behind the driver's wheel while Alfred and the man from the Red Cross remained in the back with Arthur. It was rather dark with the doors shut, but nothing compared to the tunnels so Alfred didn't complain. The sound of the motor kicking to life was the only warning he got before the beast of a vehicle lurch forward and nearly sent him to the deck on his face. Had the volunteer not steadied him with a hand in conjunction with Alfred grabbing one of the tethers hanging from the ceiling rail, he'd have face-planted.

"Uh, thanks again, damn this thing bucks like a bronco," He commented, looking a bit embarrassed as he wrapped his hand tighter around the leather strap and spread his stance to brace himself.

The man, crouched down next to Arthur, just smiled and continued to remove Arthur's tunic to check him over for injuries. Alfred knew he wouldn't find any, but he didn't say anything, "S'alright, 'appens to e'ryone the'r first time."

Alfred's curiosity got the best of him and he rose an eyebrow at the man, "I wanna say you're British, but your accent isn't one I'm used to. Where ya from?"

The man, getting more confused as he continued to search Arthur for wounds...and was at a loss as to why there were none, "Uh..." He began, still intent on his work, "M'from Sweden, one of el'v'n other doctor's in this part," Finally he looked up at Alfred, still looking bewildered, " 'Ow did 'e git like this? Wh're was 'e 'urt?"

"Uh-" Alfred said, trying to think of something to tell the human. "He was...thrown from the convoy we were traveling in and ended up in the river. I went in to get him before the group was attacked and it...just left us. We've been traveling for a while, I don't remember where it happened."

The doctor gave him a sympathetic look and seemed to accept Alfred's version of events. It also seemed to give him an alternate explanation for Arthur's condition than something...supernatural? Is that really what it was? Alfred shrugged it off and watched as the Swedish doctor took Arthur's pulse, temperature, and checked his pupils. Now that the man was sure his patient didn't have any external wounds, he knew he would have to wait for them to reach their destination to check for internal ones. The doctor genuinely looked concerned about Arthur's well-being, which made Alfred feel bad because he couldn't tell him the truth that there was really nothing he could do for him.

Arthur was beyond human medicine, but Alfred didn't stop the doctor from starting an intravenous line and giving the Englishman fluids.

"I wish we'd gotten h're soon'r. You're sure th're were no other s'rvivors?"

Sadly, Alfred could honest answer yes. There had only been the conductors on the train that had been destroyed...and there was no way they could have lived.

The doctor solemnly shook his head and sighed, " 'M s'rry."

"Yeah...me too."

* * *

By the time they had gotten to Arras, the sun was well into the west and a dusky light met the men when the doors opened.

Immediately there was a bustle of activity. A group of men and women in white uniforms rushed the ambulance, exchanged quick words Alfred didn't understand with the Swedish doctor, then grabbed the liter and rushed Arthur away. Alfred's instinctive reaction had been to fly out of the ambulance and chase after the people taking Arthur away, but he was mobbed by a group of medics as well and had to fight to reassure them he wasn't in need of attention.

By the time he convinced them enough to back away, he'd lost sight of Arthur and felt panic rise in his chest.

For the first time since coming to France, he stood alone in a sea of strangers without his fellow Americans or Arthur at his side. He hadn't realized that fact until that moment, and now he was left with an odd sense of isolation and fear.

The city of Arras was far from a ghost town, but it was far from a fully functional city either. Alfred stood upon the remains of cobblestones that once made what looked like a massive town square. The area was lined with rows upon rows of buildings standing tightly packed, side-by-side. What looked like three to five story stores, houses, and office buildings were hollowed out skeletons and crippled ghosts of what they had once been. Glass and jagged debris of wood and stone littered everything, cavities from long since exploded mortars looked like giant potholes in the ground, and what looked like hundreds of soldiers, civilians, and volunteers moved about as though they hadn't noticed any of it.

Alfred was...overwhelmed.

He hadn't been around this many people in so long, all clustered together and moving about like the cities back home. But the landscape was all wrong. It was like an alternate reality, some bizarre nightmare come to life. What should have been warm and colored with welcome and invitation, full of life and the spectacular vibrance of a bustling city, was nothing more than a monotone shell. There was destruction where their should have been creation, armed soldiers where their should have been citizens, and doctors running to and fro as if the heart of the metropolis was a trauma room. It was making his head spin, his breaths short, and his heart race; but not with the usual energy one felt in a city, it was from irrepressible fear.

What kind of world was this? God damn it, what kind of reality was this!

"ALFRED!"

The sudden shout startled the American, ripped him viciously from his trace and had him spinning back to see who had called him. His face was pale, sweat poured down his skin and his eyes were wide before he saw him...then he stopped breathing...

And smiled.

_To Be Continued..._

_

* * *

_

_Notes from the Author_:

I am so, so, so sorry this is so very, very late. This is the week of the first round of exams and essays, so all last week and this weekend my focus has been solely focused on school. I know a lot of you sent in reviews and I am really behind in replying to them; I humbly apologize and ask your forgiveness in this. =T_T= I will try to make amends at the end of my notes. Also, I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I don't count the "_Notes from the Author_" section when doing my personal word count, so this is definitely a shorter and faster paced chapter then what I usually write. However, I strived very hard not to sacrifice content. I tried to accomplish a lot in this chapter and I apologize if this upset anyone. I know I also promised a better explanation of the "Seven Years War Incident", but sadly this will have to wait until the next chapter when I have more time and less stress to write it. =T_T= Thank you so much for your patience, guys! Again, I humbly apologize! Also, to my fellow Americans, I HOPE YOU ALL GOT A CHANCE TO CELEBRATE PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY ON THE 12th! Originally, this chapter was supposed to go up then, considering Alfred's gift to Lukas, but sadly my plans fell through and I'm very sorry. ): Also, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, EVERYONE! On a happy note there, I totally got chocolate on a stick from some random club handing them out at the university~ =^.^= ...=_= What...? ...Oh...*ehem* I mean: It is wrong to take candy from strangers and/or strange clubs; do not do it. Thank you.

As always, mega kudos and thanks to Lady Hedervary for Beta-ing for me and MelodyofStarshine for checking all my German! I LOOOOOVE YOU GUUUUUYS! 3

Uh...*ehem* Q-qui-quick note...*pulling at collar* Er...to my Swedish audience...PLEASE pardon my atrocious attempt at a Swedish accent. I think I was originally going for...well, Sweden's cannon way of speaking in Hetalia, but I know I epic-failed it and I am so sorry if it offended anyone! *cringes* PLEASE DON'T THROW ANYTHING AT MY HEAD! DX

Wow...I have done a lot of groveling. =o_o=...Dude...

Without further ado, let's get on with the notes!

1.) The story of Daedalus is cross-culturally known. If you've ever heard of the origin of "the labyrinth" and/or the Minotaur then you've heard of Daedalus. Basically, Daedalus was an ancient renaissance man who built the labyrinth that imprisoned King Minos's half bull-half human stepson (yeah, he kind of ticked off Poseidon and in return the sea god made his wife...er...*ehem* horny for a bull and...well...=_=...the Minotaur was not a virgin birth). ANYWAY, so then this guy named Theseus shows up, falls in love with the king's daughter Ariadne, she gives him a spool of thread so when he tackled the labyrinth he could find his way out-yadda, yadda, yadda- badda bing, badda bang, badda boom we gotta dead Minotaur, Theseus sailing off into the sunset with two of the king's daughters...aaaaand he ends up abandoning said daughters on a deserted island before sailing home where he's proclaimed king. XD Or at least, that's the version I was taught in school. There are many variations of the full story that are quite interesting, but since they're like...super long, I'll let ya'll look it up if you don't know the mythology already. :)

2.) The American penny is the smallest form of currency in the U.S. (equaling 1/100th of a dollar). While Lincoln was first put on the penny in 1909, the concept of a "lucky penny" is much older. XD YES, there IS a story of relevance behind the concept of an "American Lucky Penny". While there are tons of stories out there about its history, the one I know begins during the Civil War (ironically enough) where a woman gave her husband a bag of pennies (all made of copper at the time) to use incase he ever ran out of higher currency. As it turned out, the man ran out of bullets before he ran out of money, and ended up turning the copper pennies into projectiles for his rifle, saving his life and the lives of the men with him during a battle. When he returned home, he thanked his wife for her "lucky pennies" and thus the concept of the "American Lucky Penny" was born. As to why Alfred carries one, however, is more so for the sentiment than practicality...XD as I'm sure you all got. Anywho, now that Alfred is penniless (literally) let's hope his luck doesn't run out!

3.) Fair warning, Alfred might be feeling like a million bucks after his nap, but Arthur is going to be a totally different story. Remember, he's been in this war going on 4 years now, he hasn't been back on his native soil since, his people are dying in droves, and moral is near tanked. He might be back to functionality when he FINALLY wakes up, but to prevent the boots from knocking me about the head to badly, just know that functionality does NOT mean completely recovered. In mathematical terms, Alfred is running at about 90-95%, and Arthur might be hovering somewhere between 60-65%...Poor Arthur, but I know the man can take it and STILL kick ass, XD so... DX PLEASE DON'T HURT ME! *flails at the incoming boots*

4.) "In God We Trust" is stamped on all forms of American currency, as it is the national motto of our government. In Germany, "_Gott mit uns_" was the slogan of the Germany military from its time as the heart of the Holy Roman Empire and up until the end of WWII. This phrase was also used by the monarchs of Prussia on their royal coat of arms, on the crown of King Fredrick I -also known as 'Old Fritz'- *_wink_-_wink_*, and on the prestigious Iron Cross that dates back to well before Nazi Germany. I actually discovered this fact whilst researching for this chapter, XD so this was new information to me too until a few days ago. Cool, no?

5.) JUST so you know: Alfred's infatuation with the sky IS cannon and its also very American. What can I say? We Americans are obsessed with the sky and space and take the air superiority of our military very seriously. In the history books: in 1904, Orville and Wilbur Wright were the first people to build and pilot a mechanized flying machine that sustained flight for more than five minutes. The State where they managed this feat, North Carolina, takes a lot of pride in this as its attributed to one of their most noted claims to fame, "First in Flight" (if you've ever seen a North Carolina license plate, you'll know what I'm talking about). While we have a history lesson in Alfred's musings, we also have some foreshadowing as the United States does eventually en mass the largest and most funded Air Force during WWII and keeps it into present day. Yep, we Americans love our airplanes. As for space...While America wasn't the first country in space (the USSR's Yuri Gagarin took that), we were the first on the moon. 83 Hell yeah. John F. Kennedy (who the Kennedy Space Center of NASA is named after) was the president who made a promise that we'd be the first, and by gum it we were (yes, let me have my proud American moment). If you know anything about the Space Race we had with the USSR, then you know how fierce the competition was to take the battle from Earth to the stars. NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration, which is basically America's got-to-people for all things space related...also closely affiliated with our Air Force XD) was born, American heroes like Al Shepherd, John Glenn, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and more were born and reinvigorated American's drive for the sky. Ever heard the responses kids give when asked what they wanted to be when they grow up? To this day the number one answer in America is "astronaut", number two is a "pilot". This age was the reason, and while there were horrific scares and tragedies in the quest for space (Apollo I, Apollo XIII, Challenger, Columbia to name a few) there was also a dedication to the goals set by president Kennedy. I wanted to show that in Alfred, even though its still well before the time of Kennedy, the dream had been there since before the Wright Brothers first took flight. X3 So there ya go, you all now know that I'm a pretty proud and patriotic person, who was also a little girl who answered to her Daddy that she wanted to be an astronaut someday.

6.) The International Red Cross has been around since 1863 (and its famous symbol is actually an inverted version of the nation that founded it, Switzerland. 83 Fun fact, no?). During WWI, the International Red Cross was instrumental in caring for the wounded, dying, and seeing to the health of Prisoners of War. They helped send letters back and forth to numerous countries from families and soldiers at war. The Red Cross has no political affiliation and remains neutral in all aspects, their only concern is for the rights and well-being of those affected by conflict. It should also be noted that volunteers came from as far away as Japan to join the humanitarian effort in Europe, which I think is the coolest thing ever. For the war depicted here, many organizations and affiliates of the Red Cross donated the most modern ambulances they could at the time. While the majority of ambulances during WWI were still horse-drawn, the motorized ones were in use as well and saved many lives on all fronts. Whether one was on the Allied, Central, or later Axis side, the Red Cross saw and still sees no nationality, color, creed, ethnicity or religion as being more or less worthy of care. Also, while shooting a corpsman/medic (a field medic associated with the military) was something publicly frowned upon, yet heavily strived for in the later wars (Grrrrr), firing upon the Red Cross was/is a HUGE international "no-no". In any time period. Period. You see the Red Cross; you put your guns away unless you're protecting them (or cannon Switzerland's gonna go bubonic on your ass). If you couldn't tell, I'm a huge fan of the Red Cross and have volunteered with the American Red Cross for a very long time. :) To other volunteers around the world, I salute you.

7.) The city of Arras after the Battle of Arras...was damn near completely destroyed. But, when the Allies took it back it remained under Allied control for the remainder of the war. If you look at pictures of the city before, during, and after the war...it really is a testament to the destruction caused by war. We'll be in Arras for at least one more chapter, so more notes to come!

_German Translations:_

1.) "_verrückt_" - "crazy/mad/insane" Take your pick. X3

2.) "_leiden" - "suffer"_

3._) "Freund/meine Freunde" _- "friend/my friends"

4.)_ "auch" _- "also"

5.) "_nicht richtig" _- "not right"

6.) "_bestrafen_" - "punish"

7.) "_Leb wohl, mein Freund._" - "Farewell, my friend"

8.) "_In Deutschland, Herr Lincoln, sagen wir _'_Gott mit uns_'_...aber ich denke_, 'In God we Trust' _funktioniert auch_." - "In Germany, Mr. Lincoln, we say 'God With Us'...but I think 'In God We Trust' works too."

_Words Alfred Had Difficulty With:_

1.) "_Krankenschwester" _(In German, this is the word for a "nurse", though literally translated into English it means "sick sister". XD Anyway, when I asked my non-German speaking friend to pronounce it, he said "Kraken-shh-western", which sent me to the floor laughing and gave me inspiration to have Alfred muck it up. X3 Kraken is the mythical sea monster that is either a serpent or -more commonly- a giant squid, and a western is pretty much the entire genre American cowboy movies come out of.)

2.) "_Mannschaft_" (In German, this means "team", which isn't a bad thing at all. But in English, a "man-shaft" -which is similarly pronounced- is another word for...uh...part of the male anatomy. XD )

3.) "_Schiffahrt_" (This is another harmless German word meaning "navigate" that sounds very giggle-worthy in English. Pronounced correctly its something like "Shh-if_-_haa_rd_", but in English -or in Alfred if you prefer- it sounds like "She-fart"...which, "she" refers to a girl and "fart/farting" is the expulsion of gas from the butt. XD Isn't learning other languages fun?)

Words Lukas Had Difficultly With:

1.) "Footsie" (In English, "footsie" is something you do to show affection to someone you like by rubbing or nudging their feet with your own. In German, the word "footsie" sounds like "Fotze"...as in "die Fotze", which is a really not-so-nice way to say "vulva"...as in part of the female anatomy. XD No wonder the poor boy had trouble saying it.)

2.) "Flicker" (In English, "flicker" is a term used to describe ebbing and flowing light or quick movements. However, pronounced in German it sounds more like the word "_Ficker_"...which is a really naughty and vulgar term the equivalence of "mother-f**er" in American English, or a really passionately said "wanker" in British English. X3)

3.) "Shave" (In English, shaving is finely cutting something or trimming hair from the body. Saying it in German it sounds akin to "scharf" -"f's" are pronounced like "v's" in German- which means hot or sexy. ;) So...Alfred asking him "Hey dude, ya shave?" would be reeeeeally awkward.)

* * *

Finally...because I couldn't reply to all my reviewers, I'm going to pull a chapter 6 and thank all my reviewers since that chapter. If I miss a name PLEASE forgive me and know that there isn't a single review I haven't read and appreciated!

**Anon:** My dear, you STILL have me in a flush. XD Thank you so much and I hope you've enjoyed all the updates since Chapter 6! *huggles*

**kinoko5: **:D I'm positively thrilled you liked Lukas (to be honest, the kid really grew on me too, hence why I couldn't bare to see something happen to him); I'm even more thrilled that you got the reference to Ludwig Beck! =^.^= I'm also very happy to hear you like my version of Arthur. From what I've studied as well, Britain was not very hot-to-trot about either WW, but they held the mentality that if someone's gonna start something, then by golly they're going to finish it and make you wish you'd never opened your trap. X3 Hence why my version of Arthur is much along those lines. And yes...Alfred is no 007. ;D Thank you so much for taking the time to review again! :)

**Danish dude: **XD LOL! See, you got your wish! Lukas gets to live and is even plus an American penny. :) What a lad! I'm really glad my story held your interest and you've enjoyed it. I hope this chapter is no different! XD Thank you again!

**KitakLaw: **Oh, dear Kitak, to you I owe the BIGGEST apology ever...of all time, DX. I promised my "Seven Year Wars" scene and I failed to deliver, *bowbowbowbow* FORGIVE ME! I WILL be putting it in chapter 13, and I WILL be taking up your suggestion to ensure I get it right. My knowledge of Canadian history is totally fail, but I'ma makin' a promise to you and all of my Canadian audience that I'm going to try my best and strive to for a quarter of you version's epic-ness. I thank you for all you do and all the encouragement you give! To all, Lukas would NOT have happened without this wonderful lady here, so thank her for the sweet little OC many (including myself) love and adore! I always look forward to your reviews, correspondence, and of course your stories. *salutes* I shall not fail ye, cap'm!

**Lady Hedervary:** ONEECHAAAAAAAN~! *glomps* Youarethemostamazing,awesome,! I love ya and all your frying pan glory! OH you smexalicious thing you~!

**MelodyofStarshine:** Vielen Dank für alles, was Sie tun. :D Ich kann nicht genug ausdrücken, wie wertvoll Ihre Hilfe hat mit meinem deutschen gewesen, und die Korrespondenz mit Ihnen hat nichts weniger als eine Freude gewesen! Die Widmung eines Kapitels und alle Dankeschöns in der Welt wird nie genug sein, mein Lieber! DANKE! *Huggles* …=^_^;= I reeeeally hope that was legible.

**Yumetsukihime: **Actions scenes are one of my favorite parts of writing, and I get all excited and in the zone when I do them! XP Sometimes I think what goes from my head to the paper isn't always the best depiction, but I edit, edit, and even physically reenact them while I edit again (I know, I'm a weird-o, but hey, how else am I suppose to describe half of these moves XP). 8D Thank you so much for your reviews! 3

**hana-kitzu: **XD You have got to be one of my most loyal reviewers, and I really wanna thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'm so happy to have returning readers and viewers and it absolutely brightens my day to see people enjoy what I produce, so much. :3 *hug* THANK YOU!

**Menydh Ebrenn: **HERE'S TO MORE TOTALLY BAD ASS/MOTHER HEN ENGLAND! XD I love a the complexity of England's character, he's so much fun to write for! =^_^= I'm gratefully grateful for your grateful review. ;) It always brightens my day!

**tinturnabby: **Oh my HEAVENS, D8 your last review had ME biting my nails and thinking "If this ever becomes a movie...this person is SO doing my movie trailer". XD I hope the pins and needles didn't hurt too bad, as you can see I like Lukas too much to hurt him too badly, and since I'm rather fond of the main characters too...=_= I totally needed them to live for a few more chapters XD. Ooooo, I wanted so BADLY to add Canada's perspective into this chapter, but it just didn't happen. DX I'M SORRY! I promise to get to it next chapter and definitely have a lot to think about when writing it after your last review. My goodness, I'm really an awful tormentor to these characters, aren't I? =_= As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR IN DEPTH REVIEW!

**OoBlueBubblesoO: **Again, you are such an enthusiastic reviewer! XD Your energy is highly contagious and I want to thank you so much for it! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and I'm working diligently on the next! :D

**Kakita101:** I'm sorry Arthur didn't get to wake up to see Alfred and Lukas interacting, ): but I hope you can forgive me for it. I STILL THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEW! XD I promise I will-...er...*sweatdrop*...Well, I'll "_attempt_" to bring Arthur back bright-eyed and bushy-tailed next chapter! DX He's taken a lot of damage and just doesn't wanna wake up! *pouts* Lazy dork-! ACK! *stabbed with spontaneous flying pirate sword* =X_X=

**Renkin-chan: **XD Thank you! That was so sweet! ;) Hope its still cool, even though Arthur is K. at the moment-! AHHHH! *stabbed again with spontaneous flying pirate sword* DX OH COME ON!

**Doneti Ichike:** First off, Doneti was the first person to respond to my plea for more facts on English history and I AM SO ETERNALLY GRATEFUL~! *glomps* D8 I had no idea England had TEN civil wars! Geez, and I thought OURS was bad DX! I'm so glad you like the story, and if ever I screw anything Dutch or English up, feel free to boot me to the head...while I got a helmet on...=_= preferably, a very...very sturdy football helmet. =^^;= THANK YOU AGAIN!

**MidniteDancer: **Heeey~ are you the same MidniteDancer who commented on "You Were So Small" on dA? If you are, then THANKYOUSOMUCHFORREVIEWING! If not, then please forgive my previous outburst and accept this one: THANKYOUSOMUCHFORREVIEWING! XD I'm glad you're not sickened or upset with my war depictions, to be honest that was a fear I had before posting both of my stories, but its good to see my lack of sugar-coating has been well received! Also...SHARE THOSE HAMBURGERS! DX I'm STARVING!

**Somebody: **...Best. Name. Ever. XDD For real. :) Seeing your review really gave me the warm and fuzzies, and I thank you sincerely. I'm glad you're not offended with my familial tone with Arthur and Alfred, I knew going into this that most people would want something more romantic, but I think one can really emphasize love without it. XD Its not to say I'm against romanticism in anyway, but for the purposes of this RP I'm stickin' to m'guns and focusing on deepening their relationship and not sexing it up. Let's face it, regardless of many opinions, war is not sexy. But that doesn't mean love doesn't happen. =^_^= You really made me feel good that you read the notes, and I really thank you for the compliments on the story! Also, *salutes* Happy post-Freedom Day to you right back! XD

**Sesshyro: **=_= ... =_= ...Let's not mention anymore about the pirate years of England *just waiting for him to go nautical on my ass for all the crap I put him through*. XD Thank you for givin' Lukas some love and know that it was difficult for me to send him away in this chapter, but he honestly would not have been welcomed in Allied territory regardless of how much Alfred likes him. =T_T= *le sigh* But thank you again for reading and reviewing! 8D I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

**coughdrop101: **I hope I didn't scare you into thinking I went on hiatus after this last chapter, I honestly didn't mean for it to take this long! :) Thank you for appreciating all the time and effort it takes to make one of these chapters, and a really big thanks for reading the Author's Notes. XD To be honest...they're one of my favorite parts about writing this thing. =^_^= I hope you continue to enjoy the story, thank you again for reading and reviewing!

**7dragons7: **HIGH-FIVE FOR THE HISTORY BUFFS! 8D I totally geek out when I see fellow history buffs reading and enjoying my fics, and I'm incredibly excited that you enjoyed "You Were So Small"! That fic is still my baby and I love it dearly. It took a while to write and was my first ever attempt at Hetalia and historical fan-fiction in general. :) Here's to more flip-flops of angst to come, and great appreciation for taking the time to review (I'm honored that you did so since you said you don't review often). :D Thank you again!

**evilqueen13: **:3 To a fellow South Jersian with an appreciation for realism and an awesome writer herself, THANK YOU! *glomps* You had me flushing like mad when I read your review, and seeing someone from so close to home reading and enjoying the story made me wanna do summersaults! XD Thank you so much again, and say hi to Jersey for me!

**Hane no Zaia:** 8D Thanks! I hope this chapter was to your liking as well! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

**Noelle:** Tooootally. ;D

**FullmetalShinigami21096:** Once again, HISTORY-BUFF-HIGH-FIVE! XD WWI is one of the lesser talked/written about wars, especially in Hetalia, but in my opinion it was THE critical point in history that changed things on a global scale and set the stage for the world we live in now. So many firsts were had in this war and its a shame they aren't more known. :D I have both read and watched "All's Quiet on the Western Front" (albeit it was more or less a half a decade ago) and I think its an incredible work. ;) Dun worry about reviewing late, as I've said before, reviewing is at the discretion of the readers and I am both thrilled and humbled whenever someone takes the time. XD I hope chapter 12 was to your liking! THANK YOU AGAIN!

**Jaws That Bite: **Fear not! The great Arthur bitchery shall be unleashed full force in due time! XD Oooo~, Alfred's in troooo-uuuuble~ LOL! :) Your hypothesis was correct, and yes, Lukas did save countless lives and was aptly dubbed a hero for it! XD I hope the outcome was to your liking! THANK YOU AGAIN!

**Jackiras94: **Ahhh~, and teaching is the best part of writing historical fanfiction ;), and I'll be more than happy to pull a few heartstrings along the way. Good luck with your works, m'dear, and know that I'm rooting you on! XD

**Nobilis:** =^_^= I love the complexity of Arthur, and I absolutely love exploring his mortality. You can really push a man to the limit when you have him questioning his life and soul, and it really speaks to a person's/character's strength when he or she continues moving forward without forgetting the defining moments of his or her life to that point. XD Haha, and I LOVED "a lick of German" too. Its such a common American expression that really does make no sense anywhere else, it just makes Alfred all the more unique and Lukas all the more confused. Speaking of Lukas, I'm really happy you found him so easy to connect to and sympathize with. :) Another purpose of Lukas was for people to realize that while the Germans were the Allies' "enemy", they were/are still people with families, friends, and lives that were just as disrupted or destroyed by the war. To this extent, I think Lukas did a good job (and coming from me who's scared to death of OCs, that the highest compliment I can give). XD THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN FOR READING AND REVIEWING!

**Gosangoku: **Last, but certainly not least! Oh goodness, I almost didn't get this one in before posting. =_= BUT I'M SO GLAD I DID! XD LOL, glad you liked the flash back! Arthur is such a tough guy...well, on the outside and to everyone but Alfred, at least, and even then he's a bigger fan of tough love now that Alfred is older. =.= Oh...don't worry...you should see the character deaths I have in MY head. D8 Its so frightening, especially since I've grown so attached to him...I'm a mean author. I TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY! DX *cowers* Please don't throw any boots or swords at me! ;D Thanks again, Gosangoku! Always a pleasure hearing from ya!

*pant-pant-pant-pant* Oh...dear GOD please gimme a cup o' tea and a pillow STAT! I'm about ready to pass out! DX ...But this was worth loosing a little sleep over. :) I try very hard to keep my promises of replying to my reviewers and thanking ALL of my readers, subscribers, favoriters, and more. Thank you all once again and keep smilin'! *bows*

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Death, Gore and Violence, and a Ridiculous Amount of Author's Notes [PLEASE READ THEM]

Chapter Thirteen Characters:

-America/Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/Matthew Williams

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XIII

"_Our Bloody Baptisms."_

He hadn't been happier since being Stateside.

The man being practically crushed in his embrace would have mirrored Alfred's sentiments had he not been struggling to breathe between small coughs of laughter and patting his twin on the back. Alfred was lifting the other off the ground in his joy, the Canadian trying to halfheartedly stop Alfred from making a spectacle of them in the middle of Arras Square.

But even he couldn't deny it - he was just as happy to see the American as the American was to see him.

By the time Alfred loosened his grip to let Matthew breathe, they were both flushed from joy and improper oxygenation. Matthew gave Alfred a companionable pat on the shoulder and instinctively looked his brother over from head to toe; he barely noticed how automatic the response for scanning for injuries had become.

Alfred, however, did notice it, but allowed Matthew to fret over him as he pleased.

He always considered Matthew the more serious and worry-prone of the two, someone who looked younger than him yet acted centuries older. The Canadian was characteristically kind and quiet in his demeanor, making most think he was just naturally benevolent and shy; but those who knew Matthew knew the truth of it.

Matthew was an individual with some of the strongest survival instincts of any person Alfred had ever met. Matthew made himself known when it mattered most and quietly observed and calculated the rest of the time. Where Alfred was overtly passionate with nearly every aspect of himself, his brother kept a lower profile and strategically voiced his opinion when it was most beneficial for him, and more importantly his people. The dedication Matthew put into his government and society put many other national avatars to shame, even Alfred. While Alfred loved to be amongst his people, interacting with them, admiring and helping them, he couldn't stand the political end for an extended period of time. Matthew, however, was a master of the balancing act and even added international relations to his already full plate.

His northern brother was really a man to marvel and in many aspects admire. Alfred had admitted several times that he did both, however he always found himself disappointed in Matthew's lack of desire for breaking away from Britain...choosing to stay a dominion rather fight as he had to become a fully autonomous nation, free from the will of another. While their governments disagreed on many things, there was no fiercer topic of disagreement between the brothers...and therefore they strived very hard not to bring it up when they were together.

The smiles at the moment made any arguments of the past long forgotten, and Alfred could barely retain the urge to jump forward and embrace the Canadian again.

"Well, look at you - all dressed up and playing soldier, eh?" Matthew chided, knowing it was partly a backhanded compliment, given the overall sentiment his people had for the late-as-usual Americans.

Alfred didn't seem to notice as he laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, it's been a hell of a ride. Ya'll weren't kiddin' when you said you literally hit the ground running in Europe. It's just been one disaster after another since I got here!"

Matthew's smile fell a bit, but he nodded and tapped the insignia on Alfred's lapel. "While I can't speak for the rest of Europe, I'm hardly one to exaggerate, Alfred. But still, I'm glad you made it here in one piece." That was genuine in its entirety. He really derived no pleasure from his brother's suffering.

"Tch," Alfred scuffed and crossed his arms. "Trust me, we almost didn't."

A fair-colored eyebrow rose at that, the Canadian giving Alfred an intensely curious...and suddenly worried stare. " '_We_', Alfred?"

Alfred suddenly went ridged and breathed a sharp curse before he quickly began scanning the city around them. In seeing his brother, he had almost completely forgotten about Arthur. His complexion paled and he felt his core temperature drop.

Oh, God. Arthur had been so damaged, how the hell could he have let him be taken from him so easily - then forgotten about it! This was war, all of Europe was a death trap as far as he was concerned, and the only reason the two of them had made it to this point alive had been because they'd stuck together. His breath hitched at the thought. What if loosing Arthur now had -

Matthew's tone was suddenly stern, trying to bring Alfred's rampant focus back to him. The Canadian recognized what was happening and immediately sought to keep panic from overwhelming his American brother. "Alfred, take a deep breath and look at me. Who else was with you? I can help if you tell me."

A flash of white pulled Alfred's attention from his twin; a white clad figure was hurrying across the road and rushed into one of the only completely standing buildings in the area. He didn't hesitate for a second before darting off in that direction, Matthew shouting his name behind him.

* * *

_In North America, it had all begun in 1754 with a man named Lieutenant Colonel George Washington; now, in 1759, it would end in Quebec...with him._

_What had been little more than five years of fighting on this side of the Atlantic had all been leading up to this moment; soon this campaign would be over and France would yield its hold in the New World to its rightful master. Before the official start of this war, the tensions between the Empire and France had been building for years, finally coming to a head with the deaths of thirty-five Frenchmen at the hands of British-Americans. Now, almost 20,000 fallen soldiers and sixty months later, he stood in the heart of New France; the heart of the land he had fought so long to obtain._

_He who held the heart of a nation controlled its lands, and now Quebec was his._

_The Empire already owned the southern colonies of this continent, ones Arthur had been more than keen to stake his claim in considering the more potential he felt they yielded. The plethora of people and resources there had certainly made the colonies prosperous and the Empire's coffers all the richer. In terms of investment, British America had been one of his best decisions; though the cost of this war had been great, he surmised the gains would be worth it in the end. His rivalry with France was even with his desires to own all areas of this continent, if not for wealth and the ideals of his imperialistic homeland, then to ensure that there remained no threat to his assets here..._

_Assets that included the child nation he had taken under his protection more than a century and a half ago._

_With the surrender of the city all but complete, his goals were that much nearer and his victory would be all the sweeter once he fulfilled the last item on his agenda..._

_Find his "_brother_" and force his personal surrender._

_When one nation conquered another there were legal and political aspects to be dealt with, but also more personal matters between avatars. The same could be said when one nation only claimed the holdings of another in war. There were many methods to bringing another nation to its knees: logical arguments, negotiating peaceful and sometimes profitable terms for both sides...or his method._

_Total and absolute submission - the Empire would accept nothing less._

_This land was one infested by French idealism, religion, and politics - none of which were welcome in any of his lands. To completely stamp France out of North America, he would need the European nation to yield all ties and influence; he would need France himself to renounce his title...and his charge. For this reason he knew to expect a fight, as Francis would be no more willing to relinquish his colony than Arthur would his own._

_Fine by him. After three months in a siege, he was more than ready to make Francis pay for delaying the process._

_When he had entered the city after the final Battle of the Plains of Abraham, he had come and gone through the required dance of the human process, being assured that the official signing of the surrender of Quebec would come in the morrow. Now, he was here for the main reason he and Francis had left the European Theater to do battle in North America. After the attempts to attack the English homeland had failed, Arthur knew Francis had left the war in Europe to his commanders and come to North America in a desperate attempt to do what so many nations before him had attempted...and failed._

_Francis had not chased him to North America with a desire for peace in his heart, and both of them knew it. France was losing on all fronts with only one hope of tipping the scales: the death of Arthur._

_It had been a good plan, but when the first assassination attempt failed, Francis had gotten desperate and taken to the field himself...killing Major General James Wolfe instead of him in the charge._

_This time there would be no running, there would be no humans to interfere, and no more risk of British lives being lost. He knew Francis had pulled back into the city upon the retreat, and if Arthur had his guess then he knew exactly what he was doing...something Arthur could not allow._

_As he traveled the halls of the ruined _ChâteauSaint-Louis_, a place long since abandoned considering the massive damage caused by the three month siege, he barely admired what had once been and focused on the task ahead of him. While the humans avoided this once-beautiful mansion for the safety of lesser establishments, Arthur knew the manor was far from uninhabited. He was following the magnetic trail of his quarry deeper into the _château_, stepping without haste down the blackened halls of the once marble splendor._

_The walls were full of grotesque windows, unnaturally crafted by fire and mortar rather than hand. The artfully crafted pillars were oblique, littering the floor and ripping great wounds in the once-solid barriers they lined. Magnificent paintings were askew, burned, or complete piles of ash that scattered in the wind sweeping through the halls. Vibrant tapestries were now dull and soiled, rich blues now muted grays, and frayed beyond repair. Arthur tread upon the fallen symbol of the _fleur-de-lis_ and never so much as paid it a glance; roses were a far superior flower anyway._

_He came to a greater chamber, likely a ballroom of some kind. A fallen large and ornate chandelier made the floor sparkle as if it were covered in diamond dust; crystal from the shattered glass was strewn everywhere in a pattern that reminded Arthur of a blood pool...all flooding out from the twisted golden body of art crumbled on the fractured floor. _

_He wondered if Francis thought the same thing when he passed through this room...both his metaphysical trail and the footprints on the ground led right through it._

_Heel to toe - he walked through the carnage, not sparing the macabre beauty of the artful destruction a second glance as it crunched beneath his feet. He was rounding the chandelier when he inclined his head and thought he heard the sound of a child's sob. He paused and heard a muffled voice he recognized even beneath the veil of obscurity._

_He turned and began to head for a set of double doors where the left panel swung freely off its hinge. He raised one hand to ghost his fingers over the stock of the pistol on his belt, taking comfort in the weight of the sword sheath at his other side._

_

* * *

_

Alfred burst through the front doors at top speed, almost sending the double hinged barriers off their supports as he skid to a stop in the foyer. A number of gasps, shouts, and even a scream or two went up around him, but he barely noticed as he whipped his head from side to side looking for the blond Brit.

Not finding Arthur, however, was just as horrifying as what he did.

The place might have been a hotel once, but right now the massive main lobby was a makeshift hospital...and morgue - a waiting area for the dying and a holding place for the dead.

Where once there might have been the wealthiest people in Europe gracing the marble interior, now men lay dripping blood from cots onto filth-soaked floors. The layout was set up like a military barracks; lines of utilitarian metal frames with dingy mattresses thrown across them made rows along two sides of a makeshift aisle that medical volunteers hurried up and down. Civilian workers ran from place to place - bringing food, water and fresh blankets to the wounded, while those with more training pushed carts of medical supplies from nurse to nurse and doctor to doctor. The sounds of tin pans clanging against one another or on the floor were only more distinct than the screams of someone being rushed from the room to somewhere beyond Alfred's line of vision. Every time someone coughed, a man in white rushed over and placed a white mask upon his or her face. Every time someone fell limp on a cot, someone made their way over to him and held his wrist before shaking his or her head...

A chorus of moans, a symphony of loud orders with an accompaniment of false reassurances that everything would be all right made his stomach twist. Here a doctor was drawing dotted lines around the circumference of a wailing man's leg, the soldier pleading with the doctor to just let him die rather than take the limb as the man ignored him and just continuing his work. There a nurse was starting a line, pressing a needle into an unresponsive man's arm before unclamping the tourniquet and letting the vital fluids flow; fluids that would likely do nothing for him with half of his face barely recognizable as human. Not more than a few paces from the American was a man alone, lying on his cot, face turned towards him and staring...just staring...staring at everything and nothing at all...

Alfred paled and took a slow step back, but bumped into someone and immediately whirled around to be met with an irritated man glaring at him as he and another carried a soldier lying prone on a litter.

The man had a bloodstained sheet over his face, and a slightly blue hand was visible hanging from beneath it. Alfred saw and stared in utter perturbation.

This wasn't hell, this was where men came when they'd served their time there and were waiting to see if this life was done with them yet.

It was too overwhelming for the young nation at the present moment. What had been nothing but a memory from past wars that haunted him in his sleep or something he vaguely made out of newsreels sent from the front lines to home, was too much for him to take in so unprepared. After having been overwhelmed by the city of Arras, his worry for Arthur heightening his senses, the reminder that his own human soldiers were now en massing upon this continent - getting ready to engage in the very conflict that had taken so many lives and left every man here in such condition - Alfred felt himself shaking from the inside out.

He felt as though he had suddenly turned to glass and was getting ready to shatter.

All the training in the world hadn't prepared him for the horrors of Europe, and he was only now beginning to understand what Arthur had meant in Paris.

"Alfred!"

The second time the voice called his name didn't result in the same reaction as before. This time Alfred turned and ran from it, spinning away from the direction of the entrance and tearing off down the rows of cots.

"ALFRED!"

He kept running and scanned the wounded as he went; the blur of bloodstained uniforms and linens obscuring nationalities, ethnicities, even races as Alfred watched lives drain away. It could have been Australia lying there with his arm half-severed; it could have been Italy gasping for breath with tears streaming down his face as an empathetic nurse padded the gaping hole in his chest. It could have been Portugal trying desperately to hold his guts inside his body instead of his human soldier, or Greece staring off into the horrors of a memory no one else could see as the last of his life pooled on the sheets beneath him. For all he knew, there were Central Powers mixed among the Allies breathing their last. Would it matter? Was suffering not suffering? Didn't everyone die the same Goddamn way? Didn't nations die the same Goddamn way!

Was Arthur dying the same Goddamn way!

Alfred tore through the lobby and down one hall after another, rushing through an area people were trying to bar him from - but he didn't care. There were so many wounded here that they lined the halls, some still lying on the litters they'd been carried in on and only padded down with more blankets to make them as comfortable as possible while they died. Some rooms were closed, but the open ones Alfred ran past were no different, just full of the dead and dying. He kept running and took a corner at full speed, slamming into the wall shoulder first but not registering pain as he took off again and kept going. It was more and more of the same no matter where he went, people walking the halls called out for him to slow down, stop, or tell him he wasn't suppose to be here; he only _just_ repressed the urge to scream at them that _none_ of them should be here.

Another corner had Alfred taking yet another reckless turn, and in his blind run he didn't see the double-push doors ahead of him. The silver doors with round porthole windows gave no resistance as he collided with them, surprising him as he fell through them and onto the hard floor on the other side. He had managed to go down on his left side, sparing the front of his torso, but hit his forehead and cheek hard. As he rolled onto his stomach to push himself up he felt warm wetness beneath his hands, opening his eyes to a sea of redness. His heart stopped, and his head rose slowly as two men dressed head to toe in white, gowned and gloved with masks on their faces, stared at him in startled horror while fresh blood continued to drip down from the table between them.

From the man on the table between them.

From the armless man on the table between them.

What had once been a kitchen was now an operating room, and the doctors were aghast at the man who had exposed the already less-than-desirable environment to more unsanitary elements beyond the enclosed doors. A lump of ice formed in Alfred's stomach as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, now covered face to boots in the mutilated soldier's blood, and without a word turned and ran from the room, leaving blood smears on the door.

He found his back against a wall a short time later. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, eyes wide, breaths shallow and fast, blood congealing on his clothes and skin...At some point someone gently whispered his name and a careful hand touched his shoulder. Darkened blue eyes rose to violet, and of all the things he could say he could only bring himself to utter one thing...

"Please...don't let me go back into that room..."

The blond before him gave a pained expression before his brother fell into him and cried.

* * *

_He entered the room and allowed his presence to fill it, bearing no fear or hesitation within his being as he took his first steps over the threshold. His adversary knew he was there before the sound of the door closing finished echoing in the enclosed courtroom; a place the Englishman found highly ironic considering the events to unfold._

_The Frenchman he knew he would find suddenly leapt from his kneeling position by the far wall and spun in a wide stance, as though he were guarding the solid surface behind him. He muttered something in French beneath his breath as venomous blue eyes stared down indifferent green. Arthur gave Francis a moment to catch his breath before he began his advance from across the room - a good eighty paces, if he had his guess._

"_We missed each other at Abraham."_

"_I didn't miss," Francis snarled, "I only felled the wrong barbaric _Anglais_."_

_Arthur frowned at that, but never faltered in his slow and deliberate advance. "Wolfe was a good man...young, naive, but full of potential. His father will be devastated to hear of his loss." Which was true. His father, Lieutenant General Edward Wolfe, was a most distinguished and loyal man of the Empire._

_Francis seemed to find humor in this and returned him a vicious sneer. "And since when do you have a heart for men and sons, _Angleterre_? Growing soft in your old age, or just growing a heart in general?"_

_This seemed to annoy the Englishman greatly and he gripped his pistol, still resting in its holster; the gesture did not escape the Frenchman's notice. "I grow tired of the insults, especially from a hypocrite like you. Now, shall we get on with it, or have you sense enough in you to make this easier and spare this..." Arthur smirked, "magnificent establishment of French architecture your bloodshed?"_

_There was an unexpected moment's pause that drew the Englishman short in his steps when Francis...seemed to give his less-than-serious offer thought. In all their centuries of fighting, never once had the nation ever stopped short of a challenge with his greatest rival, especially considering the stakes now. Francis seemed paler and sweat glistened on his brow; he seemed resisting the urge to look behind him again before he finally swallowed and seemed resigned. The Frenchman placed a hand behind his back and hung his head._

_Arthur tensed and raised an eyebrow before Francis suddenly drew his weapon – his own flintlock._

"Oui, Angleterre. En garde."

* * *

He had just killed a man. It wasn't that he'd never killed anyone before, but he could honestly say that he had never killed a man unintentionally and he had never killed an ally. Now, he was sure he'd done both.

He had killed a man because he'd been blindly searching for Arthur. He had been so beside himself and unthinking that he hadn't heeded a damn thing the staff had been frantically shouting at him or the signs telling him, in no less than five languages, not to pass.

Not being human didn't excuse his actions, and Alfred couldn't forgive himself for killing an ally whose name and nationality he didn't even know...God, he didn't even know him!

"Hey..."

Alfred's eyes slowly opened. He was still sitting, hunched over with his head down and hands threaded through his hair, on the edge of a cot in the room Matthew had brought him too. He had let his brother clean the blood from his face and hands some time ago, but he refused the fresh uniform the Canadian had offered.

It wasn't just because it wasn't an American uniform, it was more so to remind him of what his foolishness had cost.

He heard the springs of the cot across from his creak, and slowly raised his head to see Matthew sitting before him and holding out a canteen. The Canadian gave a tired smile and shrugged a bit. "Sorry its not something stronger...we're lucky to have just water out here."

Alfred knew it was an attempt at humor, but given the current situation it only reminded him of exactly why the people here were lucky to have just water. He wanted to refuse, but found himself taking the canteen anyway and muttering a 'thanks' as he held it...but didn't drink from it.

Matthew didn't pressure him about it, as others would have; he only silently sat and observed his brother with a patient expression.

The silence stretched between them for a while before Alfred, who even in his darkest moods couldn't stand silence, looked back to his brother and spoke. "Did you find Arthur?"

The Canadian took a breath in through his nose and mirrored his twin's position, leaning forward with his arms resting on his thighs and hands interlaced, "I asked the staff here to look for him. There are a lot of soldiers here, British, Canadian - all Allies alike...but they'll find him. When they know, we'll know."

Alfred felt an angry urge to vent his frustration and rise to resume his search again, his natural impatience not wanting him to wait, but he found himself looking back down at the canteen and trying to restrain himself. The last time he'd gone tearing through the place had yielded disastrous results...Matthew was trying to make things better and asking him to trust him...He closed his eyes again and sighed, letting go of the canteen with one hand to rub his face.

"...I screwed up...I screwed up the moment I let them take him without me...I screwed up even worse when..." He couldn't finish. Matthew already knew. Alfred didn't know how he knew, but Matthew was never in the dark when it came to him...somehow, Matthew always knew when he royally fucked up.

Matthew continued to watch Alfred without any accusation and gave the man time to relax before speaking. "They call it war-shock, Alfred...it's a pre-stage of shell-shock. Even though you're a nation, you're not immune to it. You were worried about Arthur and seeing something so overwhelming in such a heightened state...your reaction was not-"

"Don't make excuses for me!"

Matthew fell quiet at the shout, but looked neither upset nor surprised by the outburst. He and Alfred locked gazes for a time, but ultimately it was Alfred whose expression tightened and turned away. Matthew waited, and heard Alfred's apology before nodding and looking back down at his own hands.

"It's alright, Alfred...My reaction to it all was not much different." Only, he hadn't been able to run away. He'd been the last man of rank standing who could command troops to move the wounded, stack the dead and hold the line until reinforcements arrived.

Reinforcements had not come until weeks after he and his men had discovered that they were the last divisions holding the lines. Seventy-five percent of his men had been wiped out in that campaign, but they had been the last ones standing...the only ones who accomplished their objectives. They gave the Germans hell because they refused to back down and do anything less…They drew off and returned enemy fire rather than take time to count and properly wrap their dead, and when it was all over and they made it back to the safe zone and saw how many were gone…

It had been silence. So much silence…and then it was right back out again.

Silence fell once more in the present. Alfred beheld his brother and felt his heart sinking deeper and deeper into his chest. It was a moment that reminded Alfred of just how long Matthew had been here in Europe, fighting alongside the Allies while he'd been safe in neutrality in America. His country had tried so many times to negotiate peace between Germany, Britain, and France - all in attempts to end the conflict before America had to get involved...but it had all ended in utter failure. He knew Arthur and Francis had seen it all as a waste of time, but...had Matthew? Did Matthew hate and blame him too for being so late and futilely trying for peace while he'd been chest-deep in trenches and mud?

Raising his head to look at his brother's face, he didn't see any '_I told you so_', no hint of blame or spite. He was just Matthew - a fellow soldier, his brother, another living person concerned about his wellbeing. He saw a good man with a soul, a conscience, and loyalty to the most just cause available to him.

He'd never been more grateful for the man in his life; and never had he felt he had wronged him more thoroughly.

"...I'm sorry..."

Matthew blinked his vision clear as he looked at his brother in question. "...Alfred?"

The realization began to hit home as to just how much this war had really affected this world. Until now, he had only seen Arthur and Francis - one who had such a long history of war, including two previous ones with him, and the other who wasn't much better off; both seemed to have war in their veins and survival of the fittest on their minds, things that made Alfred's stomach twist. But…at the same time…Arthur had already died once, had suffered so much and refused to give up. The Brit kept going to the point his body had given out before his spirit, and the last he had seen of Francis the man had been nearing that point as well. Seeing Matthew now, Canada, his brother who was no more a part of Europe than himself, bearing that thousand-year stare and aged so drastically...he began to really understand what a World War meant.

His fears were going to come true. He was going to become just like them.

There was a sad resignation within him now. It was no longer a question of if this war would affect him as it had Arthur and the others, but when and how hard. He wanted it no more now than he did in 1914, but a kind of peace settled into him that the inevitability was as real as the hidden horrors in his brother's eyes...He felt terrible guilt for having waited so long, the same guilt he had felt and expressed to Arthur when the man had been unconscious and lying next to him in the tunnels. He felt guilt over Lukas having become a child soldier because of how long this war had gone on, how nearly his entire family was involved in it, and how Alfred had only been able to give him a lucky coin and a prayer to make up for it. He knew he'd pay for not getting involved sooner, for being so afraid and trying so many alternatives to stave off the inevitable...with his heart, mind, body, and likely his life. His hat was now in the ring, and it opened him up to the same suffering as his fellows...and to many, it was well overdue.

Soon, he'd have his own personal horrors. Soon, he'd have his own thousand-year stare and more nightmares to plague him at night. When his men took to the field, he'd spend every waking and resting moment hearing them scream and feeling them die, as did his fellow nations. The scale and magnitude of this war would be nothing like he'd ever experienced before; however true his hell had been during the Civil War, now it was time to be fully conscious, awake, and aware during all of it.

His only hope was that...when this was over, he didn't revert into a monster who had no ability to differentiate between the war in his memory and the world around him.

He still...he still selfishly wanted a piece of himself to survive this war.

"...Can I...ask you something?"

Breaking the mood, the Canadian smirked a little at his brother's question, but it was still with benign amusement and not condescension. "Since when has my permission stopped you in the past?"

Alfred paused, looking very unsure, but Matthew's smile became more genuine and he nodded for him to continue.

"...What's it like for a nation to die?"

Matthew's expression immediately slipped, becoming both surprised and raw the moment before he reigned himself in and guardedly considered his brother with a less confidant demeanor. "...That's...quite a question, Alfred. Why ask me?"

Alfred had expected this kind of evasive reaction from his brother, despite the deep moment they'd been having. Next to Arthur, Matthew was the master of getting more answers out of a question than the man asking it. However, Alfred was used to the dance and, while he knew how the steps went, he was just too tired and worn to play them. He knew Matthew's response had been more automatic than with the intention of interrogation, but it was still the same nonetheless.

The American sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand; subconsciously he could still feel the slick blood of the soldier smeared there. "The commanders in Paris told me what happened to Arthur at Somme...and Arthur told me that you watched him kill Francis during the French and Indian War..." Alfred explained, his voice fatigued and merely relaying the thoughts in his mind. Matthew tensed more and more. "They told me all this hoping...I'd feel better about...what I have to do...But I confess, Matt...I don't feel any better about it now than I did then. I know the stakes, I know what will happen if I don't do this, but the more I think about it the more I just wanna throw up."

Matthew was quiet before he made a soft interjection, "What is it you have to do, Alfred?"

Now it was Alfred's turn for silence. The only people who knew about the assassination plot were himself, Arthur, Francis, and the commanders. All of them had stressed absolute secrecy, making a point that the smallest leak could end the entire operation in disaster...so great was the fear, no one beyond the men in that conference room had been made aware of it, not even Alfred's President or Arthur's King. But...that kind of made sense...look how easy it was to intercept a message traveling those distances...look how simple it would be to capture a letter, a radio wave, or make a messenger talk en route to London or Washington? Matthew was right here and...he was Matthew.

He was his brother, his twin, he was freakin' Canada. He was here - right here, right now - and might even be able to help him if he knew what was going on. Arthur might have protested telling Matthew, but damn it, Arthur wasn't here! ...However much the American wished he were...

"...Before I tell you...could you please answer my question?" Alfred asked softly, looking back up at Matthew and noticing how pale he was for the first time. He hadn't meant for his question to upset his brother so much, but he had to know...Matthew was the only person who could answer him.

The two stared at one another before it was Matthew's eyes that closed and his head hung. He placed a hand behind his neck, as though giving himself comfort, and Alfred heard a close-lipped sigh. He seemed to be deliberating something, and eventually the Canadian ended his brother's waiting, but didn't look back up, "Very well...then...tell me you're not planning to do something reckless and get yourself killed, and I'm not unintentionally encouraging such stupidity."

Alfred seemed a bit stunned by that. It took him a moment to fully comprehend his brother's words before incredible bewilderment struck him. Why on earth would Matthew ever assume he'd be - ...He flushed and looked away, unable to meet Matthew's eyes.

Sending a novice nation into war-torn Europe to assassinate the great German Empire was pretty much the epitome of a suicide mission...he guessed he couldn't be honest with Matthew if he promised him it wasn't.

Alfred met Matthew's gaze after a time, violet orbs narrowed as Alfred gave him a small smile. "Believe me, Matthew, I may not be the brightest of the bunch, but I'm still rather fond of the light I've got...I don't want to snuff it out any sooner than it's gotta be."

Matthew seemed unsure for a long while, but eventually found himself too tired to dig deeper into his brother's reassuring smile and sad eyes. He hung his head again as he collected his thoughts, ultimately lowering his hand from his neck, clasping it with his other, and letting out a calming breath. "Both of you are going to drive me to an ulcer one day, you know."

Alfred didn't need Matthew to elaborate on who else he was referring to, only replying with a half smirk, and then allowing Matthew to begin.

* * *

_The crack of the first shot sent the Englishman to the ground. Springing back to his feet, the man unholstered his own pistol and took aim and fired at the Frenchman drawing his sword._

_Unlike the Frenchman's bullet, Arthur's had drawn blood, but nothing vital, as Francis charged - swinging his officer's saber back and bring it down in a high arch over Arthur's head._

_The Englishman tossed the spent flintlock aside as he rolled beneath the long conference table beside him - normally reserved for members of the prosecution - and drew his own sword as he emerged from the other side. On his feet again, he was surprised to see Francis above him and taking advantage of the table's height to swipe the blade through the air where his neck had been._

_Arthur felt the skin separate, but it was only a superficial wound as he quickly retreated in step while Francis leapt from the table and advanced._

_This time when Francis attempted for a downward vertical slash, Arthur raised his sword in a horizontal block and their blades met. The initial clang of metal was loud, but short-lived as Francis drew back again and began a series of combinations that proved too aggressive an offense for Arthur to think of anything but defense._

_Every time their blades met long enough for Arthur to push back and gain some measure, Francis closed the distance with his superior arm length and forced the Englishman to engage in warding techniques before he could counter. In all their duels, both official and_ al la macchia, _Arthur could never recall a time when the Frenchman had begun so desperate from the first strike. In fact, it had been through duels with the Frenchman that Arthur had learned that his incredible temper and lack of control in the early stages of a fight often gave his opponents the advantage; it had resulted in enough scenarios where he had fallen from exhaustion at the Frenchman's feet, only to have the man laugh down at him before either leaving him in shame or ending his suffering. That Francis was forgetting his own lessons now seemed extremely out of place to Arthur, but he didn't have time to comment as he struggled to match his opponent's speed while loosing more and more ground._

_Arthur didn't realize he'd been backed into a wall until he hit it, and it had only been on instinct that his legs buckled and he dropped to the ground before a thrust aimed at his chest went straight into the crumbling surface behind him._

_He didn't wait for Francis to free his weapon before he launched himself to his feet and slammed the cross-guard of his sword across the Frenchman's face, sending the man off balance and away from him. However, this simultaneously helped pull the trapped sword from the wall; Arthur had only realized it seconds before spinning away from his opponent again as the saber nearly cleaved his torso._

_Both combatants were panting, both at a respectable distance as Francis whipped his left thumb across his lip and glared at the blood. "You struck me? In the middle of a duel!" He exclaimed in indignation, seemingly more furious about the act than the result._

_Arthur would have been more amused were he not on such heightened alert that the Frenchman might use the distraction to lunge again. "Next time, frog, don't get so close and maybe your face will survive...if nothing else."_

_The Frenchman only glared as he flicked the blood away from his hand, giving a clipped grunt before charging the Englishman again. Arthur had less than a second before he was reengaged and back on the defensive end of an overly aggressive enemy. Francis's desperation was more than evident, but by God the man had to have known he had lost this war; even the humans beneath him had all but unanimously agreed upon it! Arthur had expected a fight, but this was an act of pure and primal desperation, as if Francis wouldn't survive losing this fight any more than he'd survive losing the war._

_They both knew that wasn't true, they both knew their immortality prevented certain death. So why was his adversary fighting as though it were to the true death?_

_Arthur had had enough; he'd never been good being on the losing side of anything, and as the self-proclaimed victor of this conflict, he refused to allow this debauchery of masochism to continue. The Englishman dug his heels in upon Francis's next strike, taking it close to his body in a very risky move, and using all his strength to shove his opponent back and immediately knock the man's counterthrust away with his arm -feeling the blade slice along the sleeve- and thrust his own into the man's side._

_Arthur's saber drew blood, vital blood, for the first time, and Francis's expression became pained and impossibly more determined. The Englishman couldn't believe it when the Frenchman grabbed his sword arm, twisting it sharply along with the blade, and suddenly kicked him and the offending weapon away with a firmly placed boot to his red clad abdomen that sent him to the ground. Arthur was reeling and trying to recover the air knocked from his lungs before something other than air was roughly shoved into them. _

_He stifled a scream as Francis's saber slid unresistingly between his ribs, piercing the soft tissue and beginning to fill his left lung with blood. Francis had missed his heart, which Arthur knew had been the goal, but the Englishman guessed Francis's own wound had offset his aim and spared him certain death._

_That had been far too close. He had to end this now._

_Arthur grabbed the blade of the saber, ignoring how it sliced into his hand, and forcefully yanked it out before returning the favor of Francis's kick to the man's already bleeding torso. It sent the Frenchman far enough away for Arthur to get back to his feet, retake his sword, and lunge again._

_While the wound Francis had delivered had been the more damaging of the two, Francis had begun the fight in far worse condition than Arthur. Right now, England was winning the war on both the European and North American Theaters, claiming victory after victory while France was only achieving sporadic ones here and there. The French economy was also slipping, leaving the French empire nearly hemorrhaging as it overextended itself to do battle on two very different continents. With its last attempts to reinforce New France and attack the English homeland having failed due to the naval blockades, this had been the last hope the avatar could count on to aid his failing country...or at least take its hated rival down with him._

_But as Arthur's wound closed and his speed increased, Francis was still bleeding and now on the defensive end, losing ground as his adversary once did. Each time Arthur's sword came down upon him it sent shockwaves down his arm; his wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his vision began to waver as the overexertion began to take its toll._

_One misstep cost Francis precious speed; he had no time to ward off the slash that caught him across the arm, or the subsequent reverse of Arthur's blade that slammed into his chest._

_The Frenchman fell to the ground, hitting it hard before a heavy boot came down with crushing force on his hand holding his saber. When he refused to release it, more excruciating pressure was applied and the coolness of sharp steel graced the bottom of the Frenchman's chin...lifting his face to see the one glaring down at him._

"_Disarm or I shall do it for you."_

_Knowing Arthur, he'd hack off his entire arm to give humorous definition to the term._

_Francis spat out a curse, but eventually released his grip and Arthur kicked the weapon away, eyes never leaving his enemy's...his sword never leaving his throat._

"_...This was inevitable, you know. You could have spared us both the time and you the energy if you had just -"_

"_Spare me, _Angleterre_!" Francis spat back, his tone and words furious, but Arthur couldn't help but notice that hint of desperation from before still present. "You have your victory, now state your terms and be done with it!"_

_Green eyes narrowed. Fine, if the frog didn't want to be civil about this...then all the better._

"_The humans have already yielded Quebec to me and will make it official at sunrise; the heart of New France is mine."_

_Though Francis winced, looking even more pained than before, he did not seem surprised. "...I know..."_

_Arthur raised an eyebrow at that and observed the man beneath him with curiosity. "You knew, yet you still continued this duel?"_

_Francis seemed to recover his previous fire. "What would you have done?" He shouted. "What would you have done if you had seen the look of suffering on _his_ face and knew it had been because you had failed! Would you not have at least tried, even if alleviating it was impossible?"_

_The Englishman faltered. He seemed absolutely startled by the Frenchman's words as his mind tried to process what his heart had already translated. While the latter seemed to constrict and find a terrible kind of empathy, his mind was quick to override it and something akin to fury boiled over. Taking his boot from Francis's hand, the Englishman slam it down onto his enemy's chest, making the Frenchman give a straggled cough before he instinctively, and weakly, grabbed Arthur's black boot._

"_Don't you _dare_ insinuate such things!" He retorted, his voice rising in level as if it would drown out the screaming in his chest. "I would never have allowed things to progress as badly as you have! I would never have allowed this kind of danger, nor would I have been so careless as to subject _my_ charge to such catastrophic war!"_

_Anger flashed in the blue eyes beneath him, but Arthur refused to let him answer as he ground the heel of his boot into the Frenchman's sternum, causing him incredible pain Arthur felt he deserved for daring to speak of matters he had no right to. "I'm going to erase you from this continent; I'm going to destroy all traces of you and ensure something like this never happens again in the New World. There will be one sovereign here and one method of rule - one religion, and one language that will dissolve any remaining conflicts. There is one law, and that is mine...do you understand? You disputed it and these are the consequences. That is the reason this all happened; you brought this upon yourself!"_

_Francis, now struggling just to pull enough air into his lungs, gripped Arthur's boot as tightly as he could and lifted his head, pressing the sword's tip deeper, and returned a meaningful glare at the infuriated man above him. As so many times before when they had been in this position, or even when it had been reversed - whether it was hate as it was now or smug triumph as in the past...there was always an underlying of pity somewhere in those blue depths._

_Arthur hated that more than anything else about Francis. He hated those enigmatic eyes._

"_Your law...is still a law of man, _Angleterre_...therefore..." He said, giving a cough before he managed a smirk, "it is just as destined to fail as mine."_

_Something in Arthur snapped._

_Without warning, the Englishman pulled the sword away from the Frenchman's neck, drew it back, and prepared to plunge it into the man's chest -_

"NON! PAPA!_"_

_A jolt raced through Arthur's being before he froze, suddenly stopping himself before completing the action he'd been solely bent on since arriving in Quebec. Francis seemed to freeze as well, but while Arthur lifted his head and beheld the small golden-haired child staring at him with a tear-soaked face, barely able to stand with the support of a distended wall panel, the Frenchman stared up at Arthur with newfound terror and stopped breathing._

_Arthur never noticed Francis drawing the rondel dagger from his boot; his wide green eyes remained locked on the violet-eyed child as the pair stared at each other – both terrified at what they beheld, but for so many different reasons. Arthur was completely numb and immobile until a hand latched onto the top of his boot, yanked him off balance, and he suddenly found himself falling to the ground with his supposedly defeated opponent rolling on top of him. The Englishman was too stunned to react until the first inch of the blade found its way into the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding down through the muscle and seeking his heart until it abruptly stopped._

_There was a scream behind him, but Arthur could register nothing as he stared in wide-eyed shock up at the gaping face above him. He didn't know when his sword arm had managed its way between them or even when his sword had finished the job it had begun before he'd spotted the child, but his saber was now nearly hilt deep in the left side of Francis's chest..._

_Deep red blood spilling like a waterfall from the wound onto his already red uniform._

_The moment was suspended in silence. Arthur and Francis stared at one another, both seemingly in shock before Francis's expression twisted in pain...and then...resignation...almost...peace..._

"_..._Nous mourons catholiques, Matthieu...C'est...ma dernière bénédiction..._"_

_Arthur's eyes widened before the Frenchman fell forward, impaling himself hilt-deep on the blade as the man fell limp on top of him. The Frenchman's head dropped and rested against Arthur's shoulder, his hand gripping the dagger relaxed, and the Englishman remained barely breathing beneath the corpse's weight._

_Green eyes continued to stare up at the darkened ceiling, still feeling the last of the Frenchman's warm blood soaking his body as his own continued to pour from his neck where the dagger was still buried. The last words of his foe continued to play over and over again in his head, but were interrupted when the muffled sound of an object hitting the floor brought his focus back to the present._

_Something...fell..._

_No, someone fell._

_Oh God, the boy!_

_Arthur frantically released the sword, using both hands to push against the Frenchman's chest as he struggled against his own pain and blood loss to shove him away. Arthur screamed in frustration as incredible stabbing pain prevented the full use of his right side, but eventually he managed to dislodge Francis's body and unceremoniously roll out from beneath him, wrenching the dagger from his neck as he swayed in his stance and ran to where the boy had collapsed on the floor._

_Arthur fell to his knees, quickly grabbing the child and rolling him over to face him._

_He was struck frozen by the sight yet again. The boy's golden hair fell away from his face, a face so much like -...he was so much smaller...oh God-!_

_He wasn't breathing!_

"_Damn it, no!" Arthur heaved, still having labored breaths himself, but not sparing a second thought as he cradled the boy and quickly sealed his mouth over his, holding the bridge of the boy's nose as he force air into the small body before pulling away and vigorously rubbing his chest. "Breath, lad, come on!"_

_He repeated the process again and again, breathing for the boy and desperately trying with all his being to stimulate the tiny heart to beat. The more he tried the more he realized what a mistake he had made._

_He had known New France had been completely dependent upon its sovereign nation for protection, running its government, and staying economically sound; but he had no idea how strongly its avatar's life force had been tied to France's. Stealing Francis's heartbeat had stolen the child's, and that had never been Arthur's intention._

_But Francis must have known this would have resulted - he must have! So why -_

'Nous mourons catholiques_' ...Oh God, had Francis really gone to such an extreme -_

_Colonies were not like nations; they were unable to survive deaths as nations were because they were not fully autonomous beings. A colony might be strong enough to survive for a short period without its sovereign nation - some even survived long enough to become nations - but rarely did they survive a fall if they were completely dependent upon their masters. Had he known just how dependent this small avatar was on Francis, he hoped he wouldn't have begun the sequence of events that lead to this._

_Arthur threw his thoughts away, trying desperately to focus on the child in his arms he was fighting to save. He barely noticed how his blood-soaked clothes were staining the child's, or how his still heavily bleeding neck wound spilt fresh English blood over his forehead, eyes, and lips. He kept forcing his English air into the lad's small and slowly fading French lungs, trying again and again with his English strength to force his young heart to beat._

_A heart he had practically seized with triumph, and now resented having ever invaded._

_Suddenly, a small hand began to twitch. Arthur saw it out of the corner of his eye but refused to hold out for hope as he continued his task. The chest beneath his hand shuddered, and Arthur breathed into him one more time before drawing back as a strangled cough faintly escaped bloodstained lips. The Englishman's eyes darted constantly over the tiny form, breathing fast as he silently encouraged the boy to do the same - to keep breathing and keep coming back to life. He was almost there, Arthur could feel him returning and his arms that held the boy shook with fear and anticipation._

_Arthur had taken so many lives before, but never...in his life had he given one back._

_He was silent as he watched and waited, seeing the boy's chest rise and fall on its own, the Englishman staring at the face, bloody with spilt life not of his own, and finally watched as violet eyes fluttered open and started listlessly at him._

_Arthur stared back, both mesmerized and slightly frightened by those oddly aged eyes on such a youthful face. They looked at each other for a long time before a tear slowly fell down the child's face..._

_And he spoke his first English word._

"_Monster."_

_

* * *

_

"..."

"..."

A gentle index finger ghosted over a calloused palm, tracing the lines of the skin with absent care as the silence stretched between them. For once, Alfred never interrupted Matthew once he had begun to recant his tale, telling Alfred of the first time he had seen a nation die - a nation he had considered to be his father at the time, only to be turned over to the one who had destroyed him before his very eyes. Both of them were lost in quiet contemplation and neither one of them could look the other in the eye.

Alfred had always been to Arthur what Matthew had once been to Francis; telling this story was like going back into the past, and neither of them was sure how...they would have felt about the other back then.

"...When the British defeated the French at The Battle on the Plains of Abraham, Francis had raced back to the city and immediately tried to get me out, but I had been too sick to move. Since the start of the war, my health had begun to fail more and more to the point where I couldn't walk any longer," Matthew finally said after a while, still tracing the lines on his palm. "That night, after the defeat, I got even worse; my fever all but consumed me and my heart rate became erratic. The governor's representative at the time had argued that, if not only for Quebec's sake, but for my own as well...would it not be better to surrender to Britain to spare more lives...but Francis would not hear of it. He still thought to try and get me out of the city, but Arthur arrived that night and...well..."

Matthew had already explained what happened after that: the surrender of the city, the confrontation between Francis and Arthur, and finally the duel that ended the Frenchman's life.

And nearly Matthew's as well.

Matthew had watched everything from the hidden compartment in the courtroom wall panel, where Francis had hoped to conceal him in until he had dealt with Arthur without risking the Englishman possibly harming or taking possession of the Canadian. However, as Matthew's emotions over the event faded and his logical mind took over, he began to see things from a more enlightened perspective...

European empires were extremely protective over what was theirs - yes, there might be feelings of extreme affection and even love involved, but ultimately it was the instinct to protect the interests of the empire that overruled all. He had learned that the hard way when the final Treaty of Paris solidified Britain's claim over him...and relinquished France's...

For the first time in what felt like hours, Alfred spoke; however, unlike usual, his voice was small and unsure, his words soft and...even hurt. He had learned a lot from speaking with Matthew, and most of it he had been stunned to know he'd gone so long without any knowledge of. "...How could you...forgive him?" He asked quietly. "I...I don't think I could ever forgive something like that..."

The Canadian finally raised his eyes and still found his brother's downcast to the floor. Alfred was sitting up on the cot now, though still slouched. His uniform was near black where the human soldier's blood had long since congealed and crusted, and flakes were lightly speckled around him like a burgundy snow. Matthew found himself sighing and not liking this uncharacteristic appearance of his brother...it was strange...but he honestly hated seeing Alfred in such a state.

He actually missed the way he was before.

"While it was extremely difficult in the beginning, the people of Canada have prospered under the sovereignty of the British Empire. We are more self-reliant now than we ever were under France, and even my Francophone people consider themselves French-Canadians and not French. When this war broke out, the majority of my people supported Britain and our involvement, but a great portion of my French-Canadian citizens wanted nothing to do with Europe...that says a lot, in my mind," Matthew replied, his eyes already on his brother when Alfred finally got the courage to raise his own and meet his. "The vast majority of my population has more than forgiven Britain over the years, and as I am of them and for them, I cannot help but share my heart with them. It would not be possible for me to tolerate Arthur or Europe as I do now without them."

Alfred seemed to ponder this for a time, but eventually his expression knitted together and he met Matthew's gaze with a small amount of himself returning. "It doesn't answer my question...not entirely. It hadn't been that long since the end of the French and Indian War before I began my Revolution, and you still sided with Arthur over me. At the time I pegged it as simple logic...I mean, why side with another untested colony with not even half the armed forces, funding, or leadership as the entire British Empire? But given all I know now...it just doesn't add up. So...why?" He paused and seemed pained again. "…You seemed to have more reason to rebel then me."

At this, Matthew rubbed his hand again and gave a soft hum. He never broke eye contact with his brother, but while his brother's expression became more curious and critical, Matthew's slowly turned into something more cynical and hiding a carefully guarded secret. "Logic had a great deal to do with it, Alfred. But there was far more to my logic than just those facts you presented there."

Alfred's eyes widened and his eyebrows went up. He opened his mouth to voice the question clearly on his face, but the Canadian beat him to it by flicking his head to the side in a gesture of silence.

"I'd rather show you someday, Alfred, than explain it in words. Until then, you'll just have to continue to stew over our spats and our war and keep guessing," the violet eyed twin continued, forcing his blue-eyed counter part to frown in a most comical manner; but in truth...Matthew was glad to see it.

It was a glimpse of the old Alfred, and it was a refreshing sight given the more gruesome ones he'd been subjected to over the past three, almost four years.

A knock at the door had both of their expressions faltering and heads turning to the slowly opening barrier. Neither of the brothers seemed to be breathing as a palpable tension thickened the air as automatically as their muscles tightened on reflex for action.

A man in a white lab coat peered in, taking stock of the situation and looking nervous before looking specifically at Matthew and trying to keep from straying to Alfred. "Sir, the patient you asked us to find...we found him."

Both brothers were on their feet and out the door.

* * *

It was no wonder Alfred had never found the Englishman; for he had never even been on the same floor he'd been searching. The Red Cross volunteers had taken him directly from the triage area to the basement, far below the lobby area and away from the other soldiers above. At first the secular treatment had bewildered Alfred, why had they separated Arthur from the rest of the wounded, all of whom ranged from privates to officers…

The answer came when the man who brought them explained that they'd found the sealed envelope on his person bearing the Royal Seal of the Empire. Accompanying it had been the orders Arthur and Alfred had been issued to use by Field Marshal Haig before leaving Paris, giving them access to any resources the Allies had to provide in accomplishing their mission.

The staff thought it best to isolate him until they fully understood who and what the man had been brought to this side of the war for…and incase anyone came looking for him, he would be either easier to locate or protect.

Lucky for the brothers, Matthew was well known and well liked, so the staff responded to his request to seek out Arthur as opposed to the disturbed and crazy American who refused treatment on all levels. He was still sheepish about meeting them in the eye and for the most part allowed Matthew to do the talking. By the time they got to the basement however, Alfred was back to his hyper alert self and rushing out of the stairwell in search of Arthur.

It didn't take him long to find the man, and he rushed to the back of the converted cellar to find the Brit lying alone on a cot behind a curtain.

Arthur's head was turned towards the wall away from him, his shirt was open and a hand rested across the clean undershirt someone had kindly replaced for him. His other arm was prone and extended at his side with an IV sticking out of the bend, fluids running through it from a bag of saline hanging above him. His boots and socks were off, his pant legs rolled up, and Alfred noticed the clothing along his side injured at Somme was riding up – indicating it had been recently checked. The staff had done a pretty through inspection and from what Alfred could hear being said behind him from the doctor to Matthew, they could find nothing evidently wrong with Arthur, but suspected some kind of head injury may be causing the prolonged comatose state.

Alfred would have smirked at that were he in the mood. Arthur surely would have been offended by the notion he had brain damage.

More words were exchanged, but Alfred had heard what he needed to and didn't pay attention to the rest until Matthew approached him from behind – joining him in observing Arthur. They were both quiet and lost in thought…

Despite everything Matthew had told him, Alfred couldn't deny the relief and happiness he felt in both seeing and being near Arthur again…but he still worried about what Matthew might be feeling. Especially after…well...

"…I…-"

"I've asked for an extra cot be brought so you can stay here for the night."

Alfred turned with wide eyes towards his brother, looking surprised, and then questioning for a moment. Matthew's eyes were still on Arthur; Matthew was never an open book when he didn't want to be and right now…he didn't want to be.

"I have to get back to my men boarded in the city, I was only on this side of town because I needed to visit a few members of my division in the hospital. We're scheduled to move out again in the morning, for the north…" He said, and turned to give his dismayed brother a small smile, slowly trying to give him a small measure of reassurance in light of his news. "I'll try to come by and visit before I go…I haven't spoken with Arthur since after the end of Somme, so I hope he's awake before I leave."

The thought of Matthew leaving, especially so soon, did not sit well with Alfred. He bit his lower lip and looked terribly conflicted before looking down at the floor…Damn it, why was this so hard!

Matthew seemed to smile in understanding and gave Alfred a firm pat and shake on the shoulder, much as he had when they first reunited in the city. "Hey, keep up with that face and people will think your intelligence is dropping, eh?"

Alfred managed to crack a smile at that, finally looking back at Matthew who was also smiling…and without warning the American grabbed the Canadian and pulled him into a tight embrace.

He felt Matthew stiffen in surprise, but he wasn't resistant. It wasn't like the wild and desperate hug of before, filled with unrestrained exuberance and pent up fear in need of release – it was…comfortable, comfortable companionship and a deep gratitude for being there. They hadn't always gotten along; in fact the start of their relationship almost a century and a half ago had been the very definition of rocky. But time, a lot of patience on Matthew's part, and a lot of effort on both had…made things better. What had once begun as a rivalry and transformed into an inflamed adversarialship, had turned into a kind of alliance that no one but the two of them really understood or took seriously.

But for the brothers…it was enough.

"Thank you, Mattie. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here…"

Matthew didn't say anything at first, but slowly brought his arms up and returned the embrace, putting strength behind his hold and pressing his forehead against his brother's uniform. It still smelled of blood, but Matthew found that he barely noticed it anymore. "I'll accept your apology when you don't make me regret guilting you into it."

Alfred smirked and cocked his head down at the Canadian, "What – that whole following you to hell and back thing? Oh don't worry; I solely blame all of that on Arthur."

The American suddenly yelped when a fist connected with his kidney, being dramatic and boisterous with his pain as the Canadian held the embrace a moment longer, smirking against the American's chest, before releasing him and stepping away. While Alfred rubbed his offended organ, making a spectacle of himself simply for effect, the Canadian turned one last look in Arthur's direction and sobered.

He said nothing as he quietly watched the Englishman's chest evenly rise and fall, remembering doing the exact same thing when he'd been watching over him at Somme…

He noticed Alfred had gone silent for a few moments before turning on heel and casually walking past the American who had been watching him. The Canadian threw a wave over his shoulder to his brother and bade him goodnight.

"A word of advice – Arthur can be a total bull-headed prick when he's bed-ridden and in pain, so feel free to sit on him if that's what it takes. Also, I'm holding you to your promise to tell me what this is all about in the morning," He said upon his departure.

Alfred watched his brother go and only managed a goodnight of his own in reply, seeing the Canadian disappear from sight into the stairwell before returning his attention to Arthur.

It was…just the two of them again…it felt like ages since it had been like that.

Seeing Arthur as he was now made it hard to picture him as Matthew had described him: a man capable of laying siege to Quebec, destroying a nation's hope of victory in less than fifteen minutes on a battlefield, then killing the avatar of France with just a sword. He had seen Arthur kill before…Arthur had even admitted to committing the deed to him in the past…He knew a great deal of the Empire's history, and had even held a place among it…

'_So...you'd stand before God and argue in my defense, even if I deserved whatever punishment there was?'_

Alfred took a seat on the cot beside the older nation, putting his elbows on his knees and sighing, "The answer hasn't seemed to change, old man…I still find myself always asking God for you back."

_To Be Continued…_

_

* * *

_

_Notes from the Author [Prepare for the longest ones yet]:_

First…THANK YOU TO MY BETA EDITOR Lady Hedervary FOR TACKLING THIS CLOSE TO 17,000 WORD MONSTER! A round of applause for this wonderful woman!

To kick these off, I wish to convey my sincerest apologizes for tardiness...*sigh* yet again. I'm leaving for the U.K. in just over a week for my study abroad program and its becoming one hell of a chore getting ready for it (Honestly, what the hell is with matching luggage? THAT SHIT'S EXPENSIVE!). My adventures in learning how to be an international traveller aside (yep, believe it or not this will be my first time EVER out of the USA), this chapter took considerably more work than any other chapter to date...which says a lot because each one of these chapters takes a tremendous amount of research, collaboration, and time to put together. So, without further ado...the disclaimer:

Ladies and Gentlemen, this was an incredibly emotional chapter for me to write, as I'm sure it was for you all to read. That being said, the amount of fear I had in writing this chapter is something beyond what I an express in words; more so because of the effect writing this had on me than the fact I was treading very thin ice while trying my hand at Canadian history. This story is primarily focused around Alfred and Arthur, and will continue to be so, but as America and Britain were not the only active countries on the Allied side, there will be moments for perspectives of the war to be shone through the eyes of others. The whole reason I wanted to do a story based in WWI was my absolute belief that this was a critical turning point in history for the world and something I could really bring out with the use of Hetalia. This was THE great and final battle for many of the greatest empires in the world (as many empires did not survive it), bringing all of the mightiest powers on six continents through four years of intense, tragic, and absolutely horrific war. By the time it was over, every country that survived returned home with a new world perspective and a drastic change in self-identity and world policy. This was the first time "modern warfare" had been introduced on a global scale, and from this new standard came the foundation of the future WWII most people today are more familiar with. While I will never, ever, claim to know for sure what it was like to crawl through a trench, point a rifle at another person's head - pull the trigger; see my friend get blown to pieces right in front of me, then sleep in the mud next to the remains...I can read the accounts of those who were there, listen to what they had to say, and reinterpret them to better understand what kind of events changed an entire generation and whole countries so drastically for years to come. If any of this has bothered you to this point, then you wouldn't still be reading the story. Therefore, consider the last chapter to have been my last apology for violent or graphically realistic content. On the same front, please know that I still recognize this as a story and not a straight up history or psychology text; my history lessons are laced into the story in the hopes that readers who prefer the yummy carbohydrates still get to the benefits of vegetables without too much of the taste. But...it is still my hope that in reading, this there's still some learning going on. Call it the inner teacher in me; that part's a hard half to stifle.

Okay...now off the soap box -

This chapter is dedicated in full to a very respected author, my Canadian Consultant, and friend, KitakLaw. Without her, neither Lukas nor this chapter would have happened. I have a terrible phobia when it comes to making O.C.s, especially Hetalia related ones, but her encouragement was fundamental in the birth and survival of Lukas from chapters 10-12. Similarly, I was very worried about branching out to go to into detail with characters and histories I was less than familiar with, Matthew/Canada being one of them. What was supposed to be nothing more than a brief snippet of the past on Arthur's behalf (chapter 6 when Arthur mentioned having once killed Francis in front of Matthew) became the largest bulk of this entire chapter. I had never given much thought to events concerning what we here in America call "The French-Indian War", but in learning about it from Kitak's stories and being personally encouraged by her to try my hand at making a Hetalia version...well, needless to say I tried, but I'm not 100% sure if I succeeded...I furiously spent almost a week working over just the flashbacks of this chapter, which were rewritten more times than I care to remember. If I could draw your attention to Alfred's multiple "I screwed up [...] I screwed up's"...yeah, there was more than one American freakin' out about that at that moment. I'm still worried about having screwed up some area of my depiction of Canadian history, and as someone who frets over "historical accuracy" you can be assured that I have no fingernails left on either hand to speak of. However...since I can revise this no more without loosing my nerve to post completely, I submit this to my audience now and beg the forgiveness of my Canadian, French, and British readers for any inaccuracies this American may have made during the course of this Seven Years War depiction. Aside from that, I hope the story element of this chapter is well received. I confess now that I have a deep love of all the Hetalia characters and was deeply pained in writing the amount of suffering I did, but the historical events themselves were full of suffering and therefore had to be echoed. Again, this chapter is dedicated to KitakLaw, and if you would like to read a more comprehensive, more historically accurate, and in my opinion a far better depiction of the Seven Years War, please look into her story "After the Conqueror". You will not regret it.

Now...before we start the notes, this one goes out to my fellow Americans and/or Alfred lovers: DO NOT DESPAIR ABOUT ALFRED'S ACTIONS IN THIS CHAPTER! The harsh reality is that America was about the youngest "kid" in this war, and while we had the most troops in Europe by the end, we were still the most inexperienced in terms of modern warfare. Our presence helped greatly tip the scales towards a German surrender and an Allied victory, but given we were only there little more than a year, we did not participate in most of the major battles and offensives that had occurred prior to the massive 100 Days Offensive of the Allies that ended it for the Central Powers. If you've gotten to know me at all during the course of this fanfic, then you know how much I love my country and take my patriotism seriously - this in turn greatly effects how I portray Alfred. However, I am also a lover of history and one who understands that respect for the U.S. in terms of war does not truly come about until WWII...and then, even though many things about us are questioned, our military might is never disputed again. For now, Matthew is more of a veteran of this war than his brother, and Arthur and Francis more so than both of them...All of this said...I ask that regardless of political, world, even character favoritism, please stand back and just regard what's being depicted in terms of people for a moment (that's the only way I was able to write this with any amount of realism)-

Alfred and Matthew are the equivalent of 19-23 year olds, both from North America (not Europe), and both farther from home than the majority of their allies at the present moment. Matthew's nation is completely behind the war and moral is high going in, initially high on the ground, and assimilation with the other troops of the British Empire aren't as difficult for them as other nations involved. At the point they're in now, Matthew has already been there for close to four years, has been through non-stop conflict after conflict and living in the conditions of war torn Europe during the entirety of it. Alfred is coming from a home environment where anger over the war is high, resentment is high, and the media is between popularizing the Allied cause an vilifying it; already conflicted on what to believe, he's in Europe now, being told by the British there that his training is less than adequate, his uniform and equipment are less than up to standards, and they are already greeting him and his fellow soldiers with hostility over being late and refusing to fight under anyone's command but their own. Instead of heading into the fighting as a whole, the troops are broken up into smaller units and either disjointedly tacked onto other foreign Allied troops or sent to isolated French towns to train and wait for their chance to fight. Now...the two different soldiers have come together -one who has been immersed in the fighting and unity since the get-go, and the other whose has limited combat experience and only really had negative interactions and isolation from the start- and its in a place like Arras...well...it really would be overwhelming. Up the ante by throwing in the fact that the ONE person said American kid has been tied to since landing is suddenly gone, then he's exposed to a WWI triage for the first time...Alfred's reaction was not cowardice. Flight or Fight response is individual to the person and the SITUATION. The factors of a person, a situation, current stress levels and levels of experience trigger the fight or flight response; for Alfred, the stimuli hit him too much, too fast and his reaction had been to aggressively release the energy the fastest way he knew how - so he ran and tried to find the only consistency he had known since the start of the war (remember Alfred allotting last chapter that he could handle change so long as there was at least one consistent he could count on...). I could give a generalized example...but I won't; instead, I will give you a personal one...Back in May of 2010, when I received a phone call that my father had collapsed and was being rushed to a hospital other than the one I was working at, my immediate reaction was to run. I ran so fast that I tore down eleven flights of stairs and crossed half a hospital to my administrator's office before being told a cab was being arranged to get me and my sister (who also worked for the hospital) to where they'd taken my Dad. To make a long story short, when we reached the uptown, I was out of the cab and running before the car even stopped; I didn't stop running until I burst in through the doors and was physically halted by the staff and my older sister already there. I am by no means, a person who takes pleasure in running, nor am I a person anyone ever mistakes for a so-called "flight" type individual. Like Alfred, I knew my Dad was not well before I knew he'd been taken, and like Alfred, I ran like hell when the stimuli became too great and personal for me to handle and it took a greater force than my panic to stop me (in Alfred's case it was a mental one, in mine it had been physical). There is also a great deal of emotional equilibrium upset that causes moments of sudden catatonic like behavior, uncontrollable crying, and sometimes even illogical outbursts. These things are normal reactions to extreme stress and changes in environment, especially considering all the circumstances in the story and...well, you all don't know all the details of my own story, but suffice to say that they were quite extreme as well. Anyway, to end this little section, please do not think Alfred is out of character for having a "human moment" and reacting to the horrors of what he's just witnessed. If you put yourself in his shoes...what would your honest reaction have been?

To the Notes:

1.) Alfred's observation in the makeshift hospital: "This wasn't hell, this is where men came when they'd served their time there and were waiting to see if this life was done with them yet", is actually derived from the grave epitaph of Pfc. James A. Donahue, United States Marine Corps. First Marine Division H Company, 2nd. Battalion, 1st. Regiment that reads: "And when he gets to Heaven/ To St. Peter he will tell: "One more Marine reporting, Sir - I've served my time in Hell." This poem is very famous that came out of the horrors of Guadalcanal Island in WWII, where America fought to take the island from Japanese control. This poem became a very powerful saying among U.S. service men and women here in America...even today you will see many who take this saying to heart in battle and read it at the funerals or over the graves of their friends. I have Alfred make reference to it here because even though it hadn't been officially written down until WWII, I believe the meaning transcends time - past, present, and future. Its something that really speaks to the kind of mentality many soldiers in war have...though Alfred used it in slightly different context, I still felt it important to add. I know whenever my Dad heard that another servicemen had been killed in action, or heard this quote...it effected him deeply. I'd like to think that when Dad got to Heaven himself, he got to say "One more Corpsman reporting, Sir - I've served my time there too".

2.) I'm sure you've all heard of "shell-shock", but if you haven't: "shell-shock" was a term coined in WWI to describe the psychological trauma endured by soldiers, civilians, and volunteers on BOTH sides of the war. It was most commonly seen in the "thousand-yard-stare", where soldiers would go nearly comatose and stare at indeterminate points as intense memories of an event played out in their minds. Soldiers would also become incredibly withdrawn, quiet, unresponsive to normally positive or negative stimuli, and only seemed able to function in high stress environments though showed little to no emotion while doing so. In short, it was like a complete and utter mental and emotional shut down. The pre-stages of this are things not normally talked about, but later studied and discussed when WWII, Korea, and Vietnam happen; thus we get Acute Stress Disorder and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. These psychological conditions often include moments where a sudden trigger to the sensed (whether its sight, sound, taste, touch, smell, ECT) induces a full immersion into a traumatic flashback, making the person actually relive the moment in the physical, tangible real time. If anyone has been around a veteran who suffers from or had suffered from PTSD, then likely you've had some degree of exposure to what one of these episodes looks like (my father had it to a very extreme degree, and I can say...its a terrible thing). For the purposes here, Matthew allots that Alfred is suffering from "war-shock", which is a WWI term for one of the beginning stages of "shell-shock". While "shell-shock" is system shut down, "war-shock" is the initial system over load that leads to an overwhelming episode where extreme amounts of stressful energy often finds release by violent or other physical means - in Alfred's case, he had to keep running and keep his mind focused on one task, channeling energy into finding Arthur. If you read my ridiculously long paragraph before the numbered notes section, then you understand the modern-day equivalent and have more details on what Alfred's going through.

3.) The battle Matthew is referring to while talking to Alfred, is the Second Battle of Ypres. If you read nothing else about the battles of WWI...read the details of that one, and read the poem "_In Flanders Fields_" by Lt. Col. John McCrae MD. I had originally written over 500 words in a section in addition to the brief glimpse of Second Ypres Matthew gives us, but to be honest...I decided that battle is better left to be described in better detail with all the proper honor I could ever hope to give it, either in a later chapter or a short of its own. The incredible feat pulled off by the Canadian divisions in Flanders was nothing short of awe-inspiring and absolutely heart wrenching. Ladies and gentlemen, around the world, who celebrate Remembrance Day, Memorial Day, and/or Veteran's Day...please know and take heart that the poem listed here from the battle at Second Ypres is the reason we use the red poppies to commemorate our veterans on these important days, and hopefully on all days throughout the year. Regardless of nationality, I salute the veterans of the world and always give my warmest regards and sincerest gratitude.

4.) In regards to the Seven Years War (-totally sweating bullets-), though I give a brief introduction to how things got kicked off in the North American Theatre (yes, our first President was once Lt. Col. George Washington who headed a troop of British American soldiers that ambushed a group of 35 French soldiers in 1754…thus setting fire to the already flammable atmosphere in the colonies), I'm starting off after the Battle in the Plains of Abraham, a very decisive battle both Arthur and Francis (in my version) have been present for. The battle concludes a three-month siege of Quebec city with a British victory (one that had the British using some impressive and, at the time, revolutionary battle tactics), and force the remaining French to retreat from the field of battle and surrender the city the following morning. I allot that Quebec is the "heart of New France" and that its seizure all but ensures that England will win/has won New France (which is what Canada was known as during its days as a colony beneath French rule). The _Château Saint-Louis_ that Arthur goes to when searching for Francis, was the pretty much the "House of the Governor" (or at least that's how my American brain translated its equivalent), and was heavily damaged due to the siege...hence why its a bloomin' mess. Now, my explanation as to why Francis is in New France instead of Europe (where the bulk of the Seven Years War was being fought): Francis was getting desperate; knowing he was loosing on the European front, failed in his attempt to attack the English homeland (thanks to the superior British naval blockades; they also prevented reinforcements from getting the failing New France), and loosing on the front in the New World where British forces were really fighting like hell. He finally devised a solution that was banked on an extremely risky venture, but if he could pull off it would certainly turn the tides of the war: kill Arthur (WHICH IS ALL PURELY FICTIONAL AND THE PRODUCT OF MY WEIRD-ASS IMAGINATION! I know of no official assassination attempts by the French on the British during this time period...but in terms of Hetalia, I so would not have put it past Francis. XD). His reasoning was to try and bring about the avatar-death of Arthur, causing a crippling effect to the forces there and in Europe; however, after a failed assassination attempt before the Battle in the Plains of Abraham, he resorts to being part of the French stance at Abraham and kills James Wolfe (who was leading the British at the time) after having mistaken him Arthur (I know Wolfe was struck three times before dying and no one knows who delivered the final shot, but I allot that that fatal shot was from Francis). Sadly, Francis recognizes his mistake too late. He was forced to retreat with the surviving troops on his side and immediately set about trying to secure a way to get Matthew out of the city...i.e. as far from Arthur as possible. In my mind, he who not only owns the heart of a nation but the avatar of it, owns the nation; Francis's actions are partially caused by panic, but in essence his thoughts are that if he keeps possession of Matthew, then he keeps possession of his colony. I know how bad that sounds, but please do not take this the wrong way. Yes, France is STILL an empire at this time and therefore colonial control was important; however, I still hope I've given the sense that Francis still cared deeply for Matthew. Because Matthew was still a colony at this point, he's not physically strong enough to handle war on his own (both in the sense he doesn't have his own army and he's still a very young child during this event) and therefore feels the effects of war on his nation full force. If you've read my first fic "You Were So Small", and remember what happened to Alfred when Arthur was literally ripping his colonies apart...then you get the gist on just how much a colony can suffer in war. A lot of Francis's desperation at this point is fueled by seeing Matthew in such a state, and recalling Francis's reactions to Alfred in "You Were So Small"...I kind of paint him as someone extremely sensitive to Alfred's condition in his Revolution because of memories of Matthew during the Seven Years War. Anyway, the transition of Canada from French to British rule took YEARS after the battle depicted here, but according to my Canadian Consultant - this was pretty much the battle that sealed the deal...hence why I used it. For the most part, the flashbacks have more story elements than historical ones, but again I was very skittish about displaying my meager Canadian history knowledge. And now, my friends...Canadians and all domestic and international readers alike...*bows*...please don't throw too many boots at me~!

5.) Couple of fencing terms I've used here for the epic Arthur v. Francis sword fight, so I shall explain them: measure or measuring in fencing is gauging the distance between oneself/one's blade and one's opponent/opponent's blade (Francis's overly aggressive strategy prevents Arthur from doing this as he never gives Arthur the time to analyze the situation), and warding is basically blocking or deflecting; _al la macchia_ is an Italian fencing term for...well, pretty much a "brawl in the woods", meaning a non-official duel, just a spat on the fly.

6.) Okay, non-serious moment: Dude...at Francis getting all prissy with the punch to his face during the duel, I was sooooooo tempted to have Arthur go "Duh, pirate~" XD I'm such a nerd.

7.) A rondel dagger is a very long and narrow dagger, usually used as a form of close quarters combat by wielders to get up and underneath the heavy armor plating of opponents. In the case of Francis's dagger here, it is an 11 1/2 inch (29.21 centimeter) long, extremely thin dagger concealed in an inner thigh sheath on the inside of his belt (damn, that's a long dagger). A rondel dagger normally had a very narrow handle that made concealment in tight areas super easy, and in this case its something he uses as a weapon of last resort...If he'd have gotten even HALF of that dagger into Arthur at that angle, he'd have had his heart and that would have been the end of Arthur. XP Just so you know.

8.) Oh my Gaaaawd, *face redder than a cherry tomato and head in hands* the only thing worse than my French is my hair in the morning, which puts Medusa to shame. I do not have a French Consultant, and while the amazing-beyond-awesome-and-beautiful-in-all-things Oneechan who Betas for me tried to go over it for me, she hasn't taken French in ages (but her Japanese is most impressive, boo-ya) so for any errors in the French PLEASE BLAME ME!

-_"..._Nous mourons catholiques, Matthieu...C'est...ma dernière bénédiction..._"_ [Is suppose to be: "We die as Catholics, Matthew…it…its my final blessing…" Okay, this has a LOT of significance…er…what the quote was suppose to be, not…what it may or may not horribly be thanks to my less than epic-awesome French skills. The French colony of New France was (like most French colonies) Catholic, while anything British was predominately Protestant. Religion was a hot topic issue then and it's a hot topic issue now – wars are still fought over it, governments are still run and empowers by it, and societies still thrive and fall beneath it. This time period was no different. From what I understand, it was a great fear among the people of New France when the British took over that they would force them to convert from the Catholic faith; but according to my Canadian Consultant, one of the stipulations of the transition was the freedom of the people of Canada to keep their religion and their language – French. This, begrudgingly, was allowed. Hetalia wise…I kind of hint that Arthur allowed it as sort of…honoring Francis's last wish, in a way. I mean, it was important enough for him to die over and even risk killing Matthew through it. If that doesn't speak to the extreme meaning the religion had as a staple for the people/colony/Matthew at the time…well then I dunno how else to explain it. Anywho, its 5am and I am pooped. Why I'm trying to be deep and meaningful at this hour of the morning, I have nooooo idea.]

9.) What Arthur is doing to Matthew after Francis's death is actually one of the first forms of CPR, which is believed to have started somewhere in Europe between the 15-17th century (though the first "modern" form of it actually started in Amsterdam around 1767, later the term CPR and the methods of today were coined in 1954 in America). The method Arthur is using was normally used on children, in that the child was cradled against the chest at an angle, the nose is covered, and the first responder breaths into the mouth 2-4 times before vigorously rubbing the chest in hopes of stimulating cardiac function. While this isn't the most EFFECTIVE method, its better than standing there going "OMG, LITTLE TIMMY, BREEEEEATH, BREEEEEATH!". Yeah. Nuh-uh, trust me, that will not work no matter what century you're in. Today's modern method (so you all know it): if it is an adult, lie the patient flat and first verbally check for a response, listen for breath sounds, shout out for help, then begin chest compressions. To do chest compressions, locate the area between the nipples in alignment with the belly button, interlace your fingers with one hand on top of the other, lock your elbows and begin rapidly pressing down on the chest 30 times before checking again for breathing - tilt the patient's head back by placing your hand beneath the chin and the other on the forehead, place your ear against their mouth and listen. Still no breathing? Time for rescue breaths. Arthur had it right in pinching Matthew's nose before covering his mouth to push air through, because if that step isn't taken, the air pushed in just escapes through the nostrils and nothing goes into the lungs...which is where its needed. How do you know your rescue breaths are working? Look at the patient's chest during breaths and make sure its rising and falling; if it is, you're doing it right. ALWAYS remember the ratio when doing CPR: **30/2**. **30 chest compressions** for **2** - 1 minute **breaths**! Its different when performing this with two first responders and/or on children, so please take the time to visit the American Heart Association website or any other approved site that teaches CPR. :) I even encourage you all to take the class and get certified (its not that hard, you get a cool card in the end, and you can save lives). As someone who has done CPR in the past on a live person and helped in saving him or her, I can say with confidence that it is WELL WORTH IT. I carry my card and skills with pride.

10.) Canada is often considered in history as the "ally that never left", in that after its acquisition from France in the Seven Years/French and Indian War, it remained either a British colony or dominion and ally of the British Empire; even as an autonomous nation, today it is still considered a great ally of Britain and a member of the same Commonwealth. Canada was one of Britain's strongest supporters in WWI, and had one of the most successful militaries in action; it should also be noted that, from what I understand, most Canadians began to take hold of their own sense of national identity as Canadians, and not just subjects of the British Empire, during this time. While I hold true to that here with Matthew answering to Alfred that "his people have long since forgiven Britain", please notice that MATTHEW never personally admits as to whether or not HE has personally forgiven Arthur. If you're curious about the answer to that question, I'll pull another line from Matthew in that I'd much rather show it to you than explain it to you. Enjoy the tease, I know Alfred positively hates both his brother and I for it.

...Wow...please forgive me for the length of all this, but believe it or not this is the HIGHLY edited down version. I really hope you all enjoyed it and I really hope its been worth the wait. As always I am extremely, extremely appreciative to each and every single one of my readers, reviewers, subscribers, favoriters, and alert-adders. You guys really inspire me to keep going with this and the encouragement has been nothing short of phenominal. Thank you, thank you, thank you all so, so, so very much. I look forward to posting more of this story and getting back to action and historical events more centric to the war; while the "past" was fun, its time to get back to the "real-time" XD. I know I've missed mentioning something...but again I've been up for over 24 hours and I really need some sleep. So, in closing, *bows* until next time my faithful readers, to you I convey my deepest thanks, graditude, and the hope that you've learned something in between enjoying the story. Farewell!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Fourteen Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/ Matthew Williams

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XIV

"_The Monster in Me"_

The night had passed without incident, and sadly without any stirring from Arthur. Alfred remained at his side throughout the evening, alternating between occupying the cot the staff provided and pacing between his bed and Arthur's. A nurse had come to check on them twice – once to change Arthur's fluids and then to offer Alfred something to eat. Unlike the doctor who avoided the crazy American like the plague, the nurse was much kinder and more sympathetic. She was a young woman from Belgium, fair in every feature about her, and never ceased to bring a smile to Alfred's face. Even so, he still declined all of her offers for meals, more blankets, and whether he'd be willing to submit to the exam he'd been refusing since he arrived. He always thanked her for her concern and told her to extend the accommodations to someone more in need of them.

He wasn't human, so eating, warmth, and human medicine weren't vital to his survival.

By the time morning came, Alfred had fallen asleep sitting up on the floor, arms crossed, head hung, and leaning back against Arthur's bed. Matthew contemplated leaving without disturbing his brother (who he had a sneaking suspicion hadn't been sleeping much at all), but since he had promised and he still wanted Alfred to tell him why he and Arthur were traipsing around this war by themselves, he cautiously approached and tapped the bottom of Alfred's boot with his own.

He was glad he'd been standing back; Alfred's reaction was less than subtle.

The American jolted to alertness and was on his feet in a crouch before Matthew had time to recover from his own recoil. Alfred's sky-blue eyes were almost electric, darting around the room, as Matthew remained frozen in a posture of peace before him. By the time he calmed down and relaxed, his face was slick with sweat, his breaths were fast, and his eyes were locked onto Matthew's.

He looked ready to apologize, but the Canadian just shook his head. "It's okay, Alfred. Its another part of the war-shock…it'll get better."

There had been a reason Matthew had been on his feet and ready to move when he woke his brother; he'd both seen and experienced enough soldiers having the same reaction to even dear friends waking them up.

The American sighed and plopped back down on the floor, wiping a hand across his face and closing his eyes as his heart settled. "Still, sorry…"

The Canadian let it go and lowered his hands, sliding them into his pockets as he looked down at his tired brother and his still sovereign nation behind him. "I notice Arthur's still out."

"Lazy bastard…" Alfred muttered without feeling under his breath, running a hand through his dusty hair before pushing himself to his feet.

Matthew didn't comment as he allowed Alfred to collect himself. Unlike many, Matthew was a man who felt comfort in silence and often considered it more valuable than filling the ambience with clutter. It was so very unlike his brother, but he did not fault the American for not sharing his own more subdued qualities. Alfred was just Alfred, and changing that in any way just seemed wrong; therefore, Matthew accepted what was – the positive features and the flaws, and just attributed it to the completeness of Alfred's person.

Alfred was a shameless idealist; Matthew considered himself a reserved pragmatist. There was no negativity in admitting that, it was just the way it was.

True to form, Alfred began to fill the silence regardless of his level of coherency at the moment. It made Matthew smile, but the Canadian tried to remain reserved about it so Alfred wouldn't mistake him for making fun of him.

"With all the crap they pumped into Arthur last night, I'm surprised he didn't wet his pants. Seriously, if the man's not sweating it out I don't even _want _to imagine where it's going."

Matthew eyed the IV hanging above the bed and seemed to contemplate it a moment for Alfred's sake, then shrugged.

"I've never had one so I don't know. Anyway, I came by to see how Arthur was doing and say my 'till next times' before my troops and I moved out," Matthew began, seeing the look on his brother's face before smiling a little and adding, "The Canadians fight as their own units now instead of amongst the BEF troops, so while this means we've got a certain degree of autonomy…we're more obligated to respond to calls to reinforce the front at strategic points. We're not as big as other dominion armies here, but…well…" He couldn't help the little smirk that accompanied his pride. "We've earned quite the reputation, so they keep us busy."

Alfred didn't seem all that comforted by this and sighed before crossing his arms and looking away. He was quiet for a while before replying, "I'm really proud of ya, Matt. I heard about how you guys are fighting under your own commanders now and the success at Vimy. I was really scared that you guys were just gonna become cannon fodder…" He said, finally meeting his brother's eyes again. "I can't tell you how glad I am that I was wrong."

What could have been a backhanded compliment coming from anyone else, Matthew knew was an honest admission from Alfred. He still remembered their argument before leaving North America in 1914, and he remembered Alfred stressing the same fears he admitted to now.

Yes, in the beginning he and his men had been nothing but bodies to fill the ranks of the British Forces; all of them spread out and interlaced amongst the British troops. But after battles like Somme and victories like Vimy, the usefulness of unified Canadian battalions could not be questioned. That the news had made it across the Atlantic to the States meant that it had definitely made it home to Canada…and that…radiated a warm feeling of happiness from within Matthew that resonated with the pride he knew his own people felt.

"…Arthur and I were heading to some place called Langemarck in Belgium."

Matthew blinked and came out of his thoughts, looking back at his brother who seemed to be critically analyzing him as he spoke. To abruptly change rapidly from topic to topic was not unusual for Alfred, but it still took Matthew a little time to catch up.

"My commander met with the French and British commanders in Paris when we got here in June, and came up with a plan they think will help us win the war. They wanted Arthur to whip my ass into shape and keep me alive long enough to kill Germany."

Silence stretched between them as the Canadian remained speechless and the American continued to watch his brother's reaction. He saw his own initial shock over the plan mirrored in Matthew's face, and in his eyes he also saw the dawning fear from the realization of just how insane it was.

Alfred gave a bitter smirk; Matthew suddenly looked more like Arthur when the man had expressed his own opinions to him on the subject. Sadly, he thought Arthur was hiding more than he was willing to share on the subject.

"You don't think I can do this either, do you," As so many times before, it wasn't a question.

Matthew's expression fell into something more serious, yet pained just before the guard went up again. Alfred saw what he needed to, but Matthew wasn't going to flaunt his dark thoughts. "…I think they underestimate Germany and overestimate your ability to set your human self aside."

The American thought about this for a moment, and decided it was the kindest thing anyone had said to him in regards to his ability to complete the mission.

His cynicism seemed to deflate beneath the sincerity of Matthew's words, and he sighed. Alfred sat down on the edge of Arthur's cot, pulling a leg beneath him as he motioned for Matthew to take a seat on the one across from him. While Matthew knew he had to leave soon, he sat and listened as Alfred began the story.

From his reunion with Arthur to the meeting in Paris; the journey north and the attack on the train; waking up and meeting the German soldier in the tunnels, and finding his way here to Arras - Alfred told Matthew everything and the Canadian listened in silence…

He spoke for several minutes, and Matthew never stopped him once.

Afterwards they sat in the quiet cellar-like hospital room while Matthew analyzed all he had absorbed and Alfred came to terms with all he had just said. Having retold the story, he really couldn't believe all that had happened to him. He had just come over to Europe to fight a war, and now he was stuck in the middle of a suicidal assassination mission on top of the original game plan. He hadn't asked or even had a real choice when Pershing all but ordered him to buck up and accept what would be. He had been so angry and nearly flipped the massive half-ton conference table before Pershing had pulled the same card Arthur had…but unlike Arthur, Pershing really did have the immediate power to send him home and lock him up. He knew some men who would have forced that hand and gladly been shipped back Stateside, even if it meant straight into custody – but not him.

His freedom was gone no matter what he did, but at least in Europe he still had a chance to make a difference, see an end to this thing, and try and get his men home safely.

Matthew knew that, and it explained the sudden anger burning behind his violet eyes. He looked to Arthur behind Alfred, and then back to his brother before taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Let me be frank, Alfred. This is bullshit."

Since his twin almost never used profanity, Alfred couldn't help the smile that spread across his face or the snort of laughter. "Astute observation, old chap."

Matthew did not look amused. "I've never met Germany in person, but I've cleaned up after him enough times to know he's neither someone you want to meet on a battlefield, nor anyone less than a seasoned professional should be sent after," he continued, keeping his eyes locked with Alfred, still burning with intensity. "I hate to say this, Alfred, but you are neither seasoned nor a professional."

Alfred's smile only toned down a little, but he didn't look offended, "I accept that. In fact, that had been the foundation of Arthur and Francis's argument from the start. But…" Alfred said and looked away, sighing, "neither of them is physically capable of carrying it out, and according to the commanders, none of the other avatars were fairing much better…" His eyes travelled back up to his brother, looking pained. "I thought they were implying that you were in a similar shape to Arthur, and that's why they were asking me and not you."

The comment seemed to spark something in Matthew as he stared back at Alfred, his frown deepening. "No, Alfred, nor have I ever been as bad off as either of those two," Though it had been close at one point and required a trip home, "The commanders were simply using the insinuation as another tool of manipulation. However, that being said, I and the other dominion avatars I've met are far from any condition to be taking on someone like Germany alone," the Canadian said, eyes narrowing. "The man isn't much older than either of us, but he's been learning about war since the start of his being and, I dare say, he's very good at it. His troops are many and all of them are of extremely high quality…it helps that they all speak the same language, unlike us who are all over the place. What doesn't help our cause is that we've got so many higher ups telling us what to do, where to go, and then someone else coming by to change the orders at the last minute before some other commander decides that his methods are better. These are just a few of the reasons my people and I fought so hard to function under our own command; we might be able to understand both of the main languages of the powers at work, but none of us seem able to translate the sense of their battle tactics."

Alfred stared back at his brother in astonishment, really not expecting such a vent of frustration from the man. He understood the anger over the way the war was going and being handled, but the anger over the position his American brother had been put in was surprising to him. But Alfred started to see the sense of it when he factored in that they had used fear of Matthew's condition to help better gain his cooperation. Even though he knew the truth of it now, it wasn't as if he could about face and march back to Paris to give the Allied commanders a what-for…so getting uppity about it now was useless. At least on the Canadian's part, Matthew seemed completely justified to continue ranting until the next century if he had the stamina.

"Sounds like you've had you work cut out for ya," Alfred said, running a hand through his hair and roughing it up a bit. "But in all, I'm glad you're alright and have been doing well for yourself. As for this thing with Germany, I don't really have a choice in the matter and the guy who was suppose to get me where I need to go is out of commission. If I do this, Matt, and pull it off then we should have a chance at winning this thing…I mean…it's the reason France lost the French and Indian War, right?"

The Canadian's mood didn't lighten; in fact he looked darker after his brother's last comment. "Britain would have won the war without the death of France's avatar. All it did was solidify victory in two theaters that much sooner."

Alfred had the grace to blush and clear his throat. "Sorry…bad example…But I'm sure you get the picture." He hoped. "Look, the sooner I get this done the better it'll be for everyone; hopefully it'll mean the sooner we can go home. Arthur's taken some pretty bad hits, and I don't know the full extent of what happened to him after I shut down because of the train fiasco. There's no telling when he'll wake up and…honestly…" He said, biting his lower lip. "I think this is the safest place for him."

"…" Suddenly Matthew was suspicious and raised an eyebrow at his brother. "What are you getting at, Alfred?"

"I'm saying…" He began, and then stopped as he growled in frustration and rubbed the space between his eyes, trying to overcome his own self-doubts and be confident about the decision he'd been wrestling with all night. "I'm saying that Arthur's gotten me this far, and it's more important now than ever to end this. You're going north and I need to go north; so I'm going with you."

Matthew couldn't have looked more stunned if Alfred had jumped up and slapped him in the face. Immediately a thousand arguments sprung to mind before a hundred more joined in. There were rules in the military; soldiers just couldn't tack themselves onto another unit because of convenience, especially without orders and further still if said soldier was from a different country. Yes, extreme cases sometimes called for it, such as taking the wounded or survivors into a group for protection until it was possible to get them to the nearest base, but Alfred was practically asking him to absorb his mission too – something he couldn't allow.

His and the battalion's job was to support the front, not engage in a mission to assassinate Germany.

"Alfred – "

"Just get me to Langemarck and I'll do the rest."

Violet eyes went even wider as even _more_ arguments filled his head, all clamoring for the first chance to spout out of his mouth and beat sense into his brother. Having just Arthur for back up was risky enough given how poor his condition was – but now he was suggesting going at this insane mission alone and making his own brother lead him there!

Suddenly, Matthew was very angry with Alfred.

"I'm going to take it you're daft," he said and stood, looking down at the American. "The answer is no, Alfred; furthermore it's absolutely no. I'm not going to have a hand in getting you killed, nor am I taking my men anywhere near Langemarck at the moment. That place is worse off than most in this war and that says a lot. We're to hold a position further south, and I suggest you stay as far from even there as possible."

Now Alfred was on his feet, eyes beginning to blaze blue as he matched his brother, standing adamantly on his decision. This had been the basis for much of the bad blood between them: arguments that began and ended with decisions neither were willing give on. Their stubbornness had resulted in enough fights in the past, the most legendary of which occurred just after the first invasions of 1812. While the argument now wasn't an issue of territory, it didn't lessen the importance either side felt in winning.

"So get me as far as possible and I'll take it from there. How hard is that?"

"You don't seem to get the picture, Alfred. Orders, regulations, and common sense aside, I'm not helping you commit suicide!"

"I'm not asking you to! I'm just asking you to get me as far as fucking possible and let me do my damn job!"

"Your damn 'job' is going to get you, and through you thousands of Americans, killed! I'm not aiding in that, _period_!"

Now Alfred had to restrain himself from getting physical. "You don't think I know that? You don't think I care! I know what the hell could happen, but I also know that if I don't do it that even more people, and not just Americans, will die. How can I live with myself knowing I could have prevented it and instead chose to do nothing because I was too Goddamn scared?"

"I'm so glad getting shot to pieces is going to help you sleep better at night. You don't need to be a hero to do the right thing, Alfred."

Alfred growled low and took a step forward, nearly nose to nose with his brother, "If I had ever wanted to be a fucking hero in this war, I wouldn't have signed up three years into the damn thing. I just want my freedom back and to go the hell home. _Period_, Matthew."

The Canadian's glare never wavered, but he didn't respond as he stared up at his taller twin. He knew he had crossed a line with his comment, but he had crossed it for a reason and wasn't about to take it back. He was glad to see that Alfred had gained some control over his temper – in the past, such a challenge on even his behalf would have had the American letting out a demonstration of his impressive strength. As it was he could see the incredible tension in Alfred's body, proving he was really trying to hold back and reminding Matthew he needed to tread a bit more carefully.

Even though he really just wanted to smack Alfred upside the head.

"What of Arthur? You're just going to leave him here without a word, let him wake up and find you gone in who knows how long, and let him have a conniption?"

Alfred didn't falter, but Matthew knew that's where the last remaining indecision lay when he paused before answering, "Pray he doesn't wake up before then."

Matthew shook his head, "This is wrong, Alfred…"

"Then let me put it this way, Mattie," he said, making his twin bristle at the use of his nickname at a time like this. "Either I go with you or I try to make my way there on my own. Your choice."

Matthew nearly exploded, "How the hell is this my choice? I'm not responsible for you, not any more now than I was the countless other times I tried to talk you out of doing something stupid. You're holding yourself hostage, Alfred, and assuming I'll bite when I've got a million other responsibilities on my plate!"

Alfred didn't seem moved, but inside he was cringing. He hated putting his brother into such a position, and not just because he genuinely cared about the man…but people who backed his brother into a corner often regretted it. He knew there would be hell to pay later, but he had been weighing the pros and cons all night and couldn't think of better way to get back on track. He couldn't drag Arthur across Europe hunting Germany when he had no way of knowing when the Brit would wake up, and to be honest…there really was no safer place this far into France than a Red Cross hospital. This was the best he could do for the man; Arthur had suffered enough, and however much Alfred didn't want to move on without him…he felt this would be for the best.

"Still your choice. There's no way you can confine me here, and there's no way you can contact Pershing in Paris before I'm already gone. You could try to stop me yourself, but we both know how that will end."

National avatars were naturally stronger than humans in every aspect; they had to be to embody all the power of their respective homelands. But Alfred had an unnatural strength that was not even found amongst the greatest empires of the world, and it was something many that had met him greatly feared. Matthew was his brother; the two were the great nations of North America who shared the same body of land that the great empires had cut and shaped and made the boundaries of today. Despite making up the same continent, the territories were so vastly different in nature that they might as well have been on different sides of the world. As neither land shared a great deal of the other's attributes, Alfred did not share his abnormal strength with Matthew any more than the Canadian shared his atypical temperance with his brother.

But when it came down to blows, abnormal strength won out over temperance every time.

Silence fell between them again, but this time it was Matthew who was slowly coming down first. Alfred knew he'd get his way this time, he knew before he'd started arguing with him. But he didn't feel any kind of pleasure in the victory. The look on Matthew's face was stoic, but his eyes were burning with anger and not without a fair amount of hurt. After everything that had happened since reuniting…he was taking advantage of Matthew's position and he knew it. It sickened him to no end but he had convinced himself last night that this was for the greater good.

So why didn't he feel any better about this?

"The man I had been coming to see yesterday, a man named White, died from his wounds last night. He was part of my regiment and I've already sent the letter to the messengers to return to Paris so his family will be notified. His spare uniform and equipment will be what you'll use when we muster out; we're leaving in less than an hour."

The statement made Alfred take a step back, both to lessen the invasion of his brother's space and because his words shocked him. He knew it was Matthew's way of saying he had won without officially saying it, but Alfred wasn't sure how he felt about wearing the uniform of another country…much less one from a deceased man of said other country.

Matthew cut off his protests with a look, yet another side effect from having been Arthur's ward for so long, and Alfred immediately closed his mouth. "It will be less suspicious if people see another Canadian traveling in a group of Canadians. As an American, especially one covered in dried blood, you stick out like a sore thumb this far north; as this is sniper territory, I'm not about to make my unit more attractive because you've got reservations about wearing my colors."

Alfred didn't reply. This was both Matthew's undisputable logic and his revenge. Considering Alfred still felt guilty as hell, both about leaving Arthur and with what he was doing to Matthew…he could take a few days….weeks…months…however long it took in another uniform if it meant accomplishing his mission.

He just nodded and Matthew turned away. "You have ten minutes. I'll leave the gear upstairs." Alfred was just about to open his mouth to utter a 'thank you', but a lone glare tossed over the Canadian's shoulder silenced him.

Matthew left without another word and Alfred stood alone once again with Arthur.

The footsteps on the stairs faded and disappeared when the door at the top banged shut. Alfred remained with his eyes downcast and felt rotten for what he'd just done, but again his mind was trying its best to rationalize it.

However, his heart told him he was full of shit, and he had to agree with it.

The blond sighed and rubbed his arm, turning back to Arthur on the cot and still…couldn't believe he was really leaving him - by choice, no less. He didn't like it, in fact he hated it, but he couldn't keep depending on Arthur when it was clear that the dependency he had developed since coming to Europe was hurting them both and becoming detrimental to the mission. There was no timetable for Arthur waking up, and according to what Matt had told him last night, after Somme Arthur had technically been dead for more than two days and incapacitated for weeks after. Alfred still didn't know how long ago it had been between the time he had passed out and woken up in the tunnels, but he was pretty sure it hadn't been weeks involved.

If Arthur was going to be out for weeks, then he knew he couldn't wait. There was too much at stake to wait. Right? Right…

Alfred stepped over to the cot and took a knee beside it, eyeing Arthur's unchanged face before sighing. God, he wished this weren't happening, but what was done was done and he knew Matthew was counting down the seconds to legitimately leave him. He really needed to go…

"I'm sorry about this Arthur…I don't know all you did after what happened on that train, but thank you. You didn't abandon me then and I don't want you to think I'm abandoning you now…it's just…" He bit his lower lip again and had to fight not to look away. "…You told me that there really was no other way but to do this, and you always finish what you start. This isn't exactly how we planned it, but I have to try. This place is as safe as any other in this war right now, and it's the only place I could leave you in confidence…but…please know that even so, I do this reluctantly."

As since the moment he awoke in the tunnels beneath France and throughout the journey to Arras; just like he had all through the night and just as he had been this morning…nothing about Arthur moved but the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of the pulse in his neck. Alfred's expression looked pained as he hung his head before finally pushing himself to his feet. He hated everything about this, but he had to follow through…God, how much he didn't want to.

"…I'm sorry, Arthur. I'll be back when its over."

Before he took any more time or talked himself out of it, Alfred turned on heel and left in the direction of his brother before him. He had to get suited up and familiarize himself with whatever equipment Matthew had left for him, then he had to find the Canadian unit and move out.

* * *

_He was underwater, but flooded with magma. He couldn't draw enough oxygen from the air and his lungs felt full of burning fluid, but nothing could compare to the searing acid wearing away his stomach and side._

_He'd been fighting it for what had to have been miles, but he couldn't anymore; the all too familiar sensation of his vision pulsating with blackness and his ears ringing to the point of piercing were letting him know he was close to passing out._

_The American between him and the German seemed to take on another hundred pounds as he swayed and suddenly one of his legs buckled. The German soldier stopped and allowed him to regain his footing, but Arthur knew it would be for the last time. His weakness was more evident than ever, and as someone who had been in the boy's position more than once in his life he knew what was going through his head._

_He was looking for the opportune moment to overcome his captor and kill him; Arthur couldn't blame him, but he couldn't allow it either._

_Still struggling to breath, ending up coughing due to overtaxed lungs - spasming in protest of the dirt-laced air irritating the inflamed tissue - Arthur wiped the stray blood from his mouth and turned his head…spotting the offshoot tunnel he knew he didn't have a choice about._

_It hurt to talk - after so many miles of feeling like this and just getting worse and worse he knew he was beyond his limit - but he still managed to gesture towards the opposite corridor and the German helped him move Alfred in that direction. _

_God, it hurt so much! What had once been healing was now going completely in reverse; all energy was being refocused on the absolute essentials to sustaining life, pulling his bodies priorities from healing to just keeping him going. As Arthur sacrificed rest for bullishly trudging forward, he knew he was getting that much closer to the critical period where his body would commit mutiny and give out. But the fires surrounding the train would be burning for some time, and since there was no guarantee who would be drawn to the beacon he knew he had to get Alfred and him as far away as possible._

_Underground was the perfect solution, but carrying an entire American as dead weight, this much gear, and feeling his wounds slowly reopening mile by mile was excruciating._

_He knew there would be no going beyond this point for a while…so now he had to decide whether or not he could pull the trigger on the kid before he pulled it on him._

_The two managed to pull Alfred into the branch and Arthur noticed the cave-in that enclosed the back end, making it a one-way shoot that was a strategically sound place to stop. It was a small favor as far as positives went, but as they reached the end there was a sudden shift in Alfred's weight. Nearly all of the American's dead mass was pushed onto him and he barely caught it as someone grabbed the pistol from the back of his belt. Instinctively reaching for his own weapon at his side, the Brit went down with Alfred on top of him and quickly aimed the revolver at the German now pointing a Luger down at him._

_Arthur wanted to shoot, but he couldn't pick a target amongst the several he saw. His vision kept blurring and the crushing weight of Alfred on his battered body increased his pain and level of breathing difficulty._

_There was a tense silence before Arthur couldn't hold the gun any longer, and his arm holding the weapon fell to the ground as his head thumped back and to the side._

_For a while, nothing happened. The German was too stunned and leery of the sudden turn of events to make a decision, and Arthur was too exhausted to do anything more than keep breathing. He was still actively bleeding, albeit far less than before, but he could taste the thickness of blood in his mouth and knew his lungs were giving out on him. His past injuries from Somme were coming back to haunt him…_

_Bloody HELL why couldn't it just leave him alone!_

_But he knew he had brought it on himself. He had ignored his limitations once again and now he was reaping the consequences. He would never be fully healed…not now, not ever…He was tired of it and just wanted to sleep. Everyone else in this bloody war had at least gotten a few hours to sleep, so why couldn't he? One free of pain and nightmares; Goddamn it, he deserved it!_

…_Or is this what I deserve for being what I was for so long? Am I to become the new example for the empires clamoring to take my place? …God has a twisted sense of justice…_

"_Do it…or…let me sleep…"_

_His barely audible and choked voice seemed to startle the young man as he quickly held the gun straighter and sighted down the Brit's head again. Arthur didn't seem to care as he barely managed to rise a shaking left hand and grab the back of Alfred's uniform. The German could tell how much he had to struggle with the simple task, and watched as Arthur's face contorted with exertion, his body tensed, and he barely moved the American half way off his body before giving up and just leaving his arm trapped beneath the other. The Englishman lay back to look up at the boy with the gun, but again his expression didn't convey the kind of fear the German had been expecting._

_There was sweat and blood covering his face, and the German couldn't decide if the man's actions had been to remove the weight so he could breath easier or just give him a better target._

_Arthur was silent, and the German nervously shifted his stance._

_The boy adjusted his grip and swallowed. "You killed _Freunde_. Good men," he said, anger returning as his eyes narrowed and his courage began to return at the memory. "You deserve this!"_

_Arthur said nothing for a while and looked neither defiant nor smug…just pained and still focused on breathing. "…I don't…deny that…"_

_That clearly had not been what the boy had been expecting, but the confusion was short-lived as he took a step closer, weapon still aimed. "They had _Familien_, they were _meine Familie_! Y-you…you…_Du bist ein Monster_!" He screamed, and suddenly his finger was off the trigger guard and on the trigger._

_Monsters killed families. Monsters took those you loved away. This man was a monster._

_There was a moment's realization where the German might have thought that the Englishman had suddenly succumb to his wounds and died. His chest rose and fell so subtly that he barely saw it, and were it not for the small rivulet of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth he would have thought the man's heart stopped. There didn't seem to be any light left in those green eyes before they slid closed and the look of pain faded to resignation._

"_Then…let me be the only monster…" He whispered, his grip going lax on the revolver at his right side. "Don't punish…him…for what I did…"_

_The German faltered, his breath hitched and the shot never came as Arthur's head fell to the side and he stopped moving. There was a moment before he completely spiraled into the blackness where he felt pressure against the side of his neck, but even that sensation soon slipped away…_

_He fell into the blackness, and let it swallow him whole._

_

* * *

_

"You're sure he said Langemarck?"

"Yes. It is in Belgium…where they are trying to penetrate the country's boarders…"

"Are you sure you were accurate in your radio address?"

"Of course I'm sure! I heard every word and my German is flawless; my father was from Frankfurt."

The sounds of heavy boot steps on a cement floor neared and the presence of a large body loomed above. The temperature dropped as the shadow fell…there was a smell of old tobacco, wet wool, and sweat stained leather…

"_Ist er tot_?"

_"Nein, dafür habe ich ihm nicht genug Beruhigungsmittel gegeben."_

The presence pulled away before a grunt was issued, _"Jetzt ist die richtige Zeit dafür."_

"Sir - _ich kann nicht_! _Jemand würde Verdacht schöpfen_ - !"

"No one expects him to wake up anyway, am I not correct?" Clearly a male voice asked, moving even farther away before stopping. "…Then I don't see the problem."

Silence. Hollow and not hollow glass changing hands. A whisper in a foreign tongue. More fading steps.

Silence.

Clipped heels approached and glass moved; a presence loomed again but this one was smaller and cast less of a shadow. There was…a cleaner smell…something almost sterile-

Sterile. Glass. Low lights. Numbness.

Silence?

A pause…

"This is nothing personal, sir…please go in peace."

A prick in his neck. A burning wash –

Fear.

Green eyes flared open as a pair of equally mortified expressions stared back at one another.

The man on the cot recovered first, and his first order of business was to remove the needle from his neck and grab the hand attached to it.

The woman let out a shriek of terror as Arthur yanked her arm down, twisting her body around so her back was to him, and in a fluid motion the man was upright like a cat with an arm around her neck as the other continued to keep her needle-wielding hand painfully hyper-extended. Arthur's legs were drawn up, one kneeling on the cot to keep him grounded as the other remained bent and supporting the contorted woman he kept flushed against his torso. He had cut off her scream with his chokehold as she was now using her left hand to frantically claw at his exposed forearm. He barely felt it as his green eyes frantically darted around the room and took in what looked like a cleared-out cellar - someplace with barely functional electrical lighting, barren floors, and a few railings along the ceilings that looked functional for the purpose of curtains. There was a closed door at the far end where he guessed the man who had once been there had left through, but Arthur wasn't taking chances.

He had no idea where he was and he _knew_ that man and this woman had been speaking German; for all he knew, he was in the holding area of a prison camp.

"You get two breaths and then one chance to talk. You scream and I'll break your neck. _Verstehen Sie, Fräulein_?"

Her struggles had considerably lessened, given the unintended amount of pressure Arthur's sudden start had caused him to use. Her face was a dangerous shade of red and her eyes were beginning to roll; Arthur began to slowly lessen his hold and she immediately took in great gaping breaths, hacking coughs as her abused throat tried to take in more air than it could handle.

Even though he had allowed her several breaths, Arthur still began to count, "One…"

The woman began to come back to herself and looked up at him in absolute terror.

"Two…"

"No! NO!" She cried in a scratchy voice, dropping the needle in her right hand on the bed and spreading her fingers wide in a show of being unarmed. "I understand! I speak perfect English!"

"That only makes this easier on me, not you," he replied coldly, eyes narrowing as he reminded her of his arm around her neck with a little squeeze. "Where am I?"

"Red Cross Hospital in Arras!" She replied hastily, panic still written all over her face.

"How did I get here?"

"A-an American in an ambulance," she began, frantically trying to remember the report. "The Swedish doctor, Johansson, found you both in the field and brought you here three days ago."

Arthur held his breath at that. Alfred. Alfred had been brought here with him. They had survived? Of course Alfred had survived. Wait…what if he, personally, really had died in the tunnels…no, he was sure he hadn't. The boy hadn't shot him, he was sure; he felt stronger now and not weaker, which is what normally happened when he revived after death. So Alfred must have done something that got them here. Arras had been where he had wanted to go, but why were Germans here? …Wait, had they taken the city?

A new fear exploded inside of him. If the Germans had taken the city then that meant the troops holding it had been annihilated or pushed out.

Matthew and his Canadians were among those troops.

"Whose in charge of this city? Allies or Germans?"

"Allies, sir; Allies, I swear! I only speak German because I know it – I am not affiliated with –"

"Bullocks, I heard everything. Who was the man you were talking to? What did you say to him?"

Now the woman looked both afraid and very unsure of herself. She swallowed and Arthur felt it through his hold around her neck; she started to breath a little faster and moaned when he twisted her right arm sharply. "CONFIRMATION! C-confirmation…t-that I…sent the message!"

"What message? What did you send?"

She almost looked ready to cry, but Arthur had no sympathy for anyone who entered into espionage against their own people, especially while using the guise of goodwill and a neutral party to do it. "What message!"

Now she really was crying, and she screwed her blue eyes shut. "Th-that the American was going to Langemarck with the Canadian unit…t-to assassinate a-a man with a codename of Germany. I swear that was all!"

Arthur suddenly went ridged and froze.

The woman continued to sob and plead her case, but Arthur didn't hear a word of it. All the Brit could hear was the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears and feel the twisting of his gut as the words sunk in.

Oh God, Alfred…what have you done?

It took some time before Arthur shook the woman roughly, forcing her to focus as he demanded, "How long ago did he leave? The American, HOW LONG!"

She cringed away from his shouting as much as she could, but managed to answer, "T-two days ago. I-I sent t-the message r-right after they left. T-the Sergeant who was here, he was sent to confirm information and return to his commander…I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know –"

Arthur tuned her out again as he eyed the needle she had dropped on the cot. There was barely a drop of blood on it from where she'd stuck him, and the large glass tube was full of a slightly clear solution nearly filled to the brim of the vial. His eyes narrowed at the sight as he drew her hyper extended hand closer to his arm around her neck, transferred her wrist to his other hand, and grabbed the needle.

"What's in this?"

She swallowed again, suddenly falling silent for the first time since he'd put her in this position, and he knew he had hit on something she couldn't defend against. He flipped the large instrument around in his hand, positioning it as if he were going to use it while wiping the needle on the sheets, restating his question again.

Her eyes were locked on the syringe the entire time as she answered, "It's Phenobarbital, a barbiturate. It…it depressed the central nervous system as a…sedative…just a sedative…"

Arthur continued to watch her face, seeing her eyes follow each swipe of the syringe across the bedding. "…You're a nurse by trade, is that correct?"

"…Yes." She answered breathily, never taking her gaze from the object in Arthur's hand.

"Hm…how many times have you administered this drug?" He asked, keeping the inquiry low and methodical.

"…Many times."

Arthur leaned close and whispered into her ear, "How many of those patients actually woke up?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but never got the chance before he plunged the needle into the side of her neck as she had him, depressing the plunger rapidly as he raised a hand to cover her mouth while she screamed. She flailed and fought him, but it didn't do her much good as it only drove the metal intruder in deeper and made the chemical flow faster.

Arthur watched with an apathetic expression, seeing her fight for life with the same indifference she must have watched him and who knew how many others when they had been the ones helpless to her care. Even so, the Englishman only administered half of the drug before retracting the syringe and tossing it away, hearing the glass shatter somewhere on the floor and not caring in the least. He continued to cover the woman's mouth and hold her as tears spilled from her eyes, nails still digging into his arms until she became weaker and weaker.

Ultimately her gaze dulled and her hands dropped. Arthur removed his hand from her mouth and checked her very slow, but steady pulse before rising from the cot and turning to place her on it. He wasn't terribly ceremonial about it, but he did throw the blanket at the end of the bed over her, leave her face uncovered so she could breath what little she was still able, and then preceded to grab his socks and boots beneath the bed and put them on.

He never gave her a second glance as he prepared himself to leave.

The Brit fixed his trousers, uniform shirt, grabbed his belt, and decided he would have to get gear from somewhere above. Further more, he would have to find someone to point him in the direction the Canadian unit had gone in and find the fastest means of getting there. Alfred might have had a two day head start on him, but he knew their enemies also had a possible two days advance…or at least as long as the man who had left before he'd woken up with the needle in his neck.

As he stood in the center of the makeshift hospital room…he paused and felt an odd mixture of emotions.

He…really hadn't died again…He was alive and his body was more healed now than it had ever been since the start of the war. He could move freely without pain, stretch his side without worrying about tearing the muscles or skin, and he could take full breaths without the slightest difficulty. Looking down at his hands, flexing and bawling them into fists a few times, he realized that he must have been out for more than just the three days he'd been in Arras. Just how much time had he missed? …And what had he missed in that time?

Where was Alfred and what had he been doing while he'd been unconscious? …What if he had woken up too late? What if he found nothing left of Alfred but…

Snapping his arms to his sides, Arthur took long purposeful strides towards the door at the end of the room and felt a different and far less philosophical emotion rise.

When he got a hold of both Germany and America, there was going to be hell to pay.

Arthur slammed his boot into the door and burst the metal barrier off its frame.

_To Be Continued…_

_

* * *

_

_Notes from the Author:_

YUUUUUS! Oh dear GOD, Arthur I missed you and all your awesomeness! Writing for you as your totally passed out/vulnerable self then empirical self/past self was out of the box for me (but still fun), but I missed the "modern day" grouchy ol' kick ass tsundere self. XD So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, ARTHUR RETURNS! =o.o= To be honest, I was getting a little worried there too, but given how messed up the guy was and that I needed him in the best shape possible for what's to come – needless to say he needed a divine nap…er…well, not THE divine nap, but definitely one close to that. XD So a coma it was! LOL!

That said, and in honor of the Academy Awards that just happened on the 28th of Feb (or the Sunday I'm typing this): Best Beta Editor Ever of All Time Goes tooooo~…LADY HEDERVARY! *OMG, tears and smoochies for ya, darlin'*. Next we have…Best German Editor/Consultant Ever of All Time Goes toooo~…MELODYofSTARSHINE! XD Cheers to ya, hon! OMG, you're gorgeous! *ehem* Last, but certainly not least, Best Canadian Consultant Ever of All Time goes tooooo~…KITAKLAW, SENT IN BY THE WILLIAMS FAMILY OF TORONTO—oh, wait, this isn't American's Funniest Home Videos. =o_o= Scratch that intro, the General's a dork. XD All the best to ya, loves! ~3

Oh, and following the same vein of Oscar glory, CHEERS TO THE U.K. FILMOGRAPHERS FOR SWEEPING THE NIGHT! 8D I am a HUGE fan of "The King's Speech" (phenomenal movie and I encourage EVERYONE to go see it; positively AWE INSPIRING!). Also, as someone who personally heartthrobs for The Duke's original version of "True Grit" (if you don't know who The Duke is…clearly you don't know American Westerns), I give my rare seal of approval to Jeff Bridges's version that did the original some pure justice (all pun intended). XD Other favorites of the night I was proud to see: "Inception" (OMG, SO BLEW MY MIND!), "The Fighter" (Irish Mickey Ward, you bet'cher arse I loved it *Boxing fan*), "Toy Story 3" (Dude, I loooove me some Pixar), "How to Train Your Dragon" (FOOO'OOOK YEAAA~AAH! XD), "Tangled" (…=o_o= What? …Isn't it okay that I'm a Disney freak too?), *rambles on forever – can anyone tell the author is a fan of cinema? …To the extreme?)

*snaps fingers* Okay, back on track! Thanks for stickin' with me through the ADD moment (yes, those can get pretty back with me), and now ON TO THE NOTES!

In modern terms, Alfred is experiencing PTSD or "war-shock" (pre-stages of "shell shock") that we discussed in the previous chapter. Since its in previous notes I won't go too into detail here, but I will say that people who are experienced with dealing with others who have this condition know never to startle them awake or be too close when they do wake up. The safest way to do it is to tap the foot or tap the leg, in short staying as far from the hands and the potential to be grabbed as possible. As someone who's lived with someone with PTSD all her life, I learned these lessons early and took them to heart. I never fault those with the condition, one learns to adapt and mold their habits and routines around them. Just extra little steps to ensure safety and show someone you love that you care.

In case you were wondering, yes, that sweet-innocent-darlin' lil' nurse was lacing the IV fluids with sedatives right under Alfred's nose and likely had something sinister in nature planned for the offered food and examination offered to Alfred. Now, before the conspiracy theorist (*coughs-likeme-coughs*) go off thinking the whole HOSPITAL was in on it, let me assure you it was a singular agent pulling an inside job…meaning it was just her and no one else was in on it. XD The doctor's didn't know she was adding drugs to the saline nor did they know she was a spy. Given these drugs were of the human variety, they would have had little to no effect on nations like Alfred and Arthur, but given what she later admits to giving him (which I'll explain in a bit) WHOOO that's powerful stuff! Anywho, go Alfred for trusting too much in the goodness of human nature and Arthur for not trusting it enough. X3 They make such a great team.

At the start of the war in 1914, the Canadian troops were put in amongst the other British fighting forces (of the BFE) on the ground and did not fight as a single cohesive unit until 1917. Vimy Ridge was the first time the Canadian Divisions fought together under their own Canadian commander, and it made headlines with its incredible success. The reputation Matthew is referring to is the German nickname they received of "Sturmtruppen", which means "Storm Troopers". They got the nickname because of the skill and tenacity they fought with, and the actual term "Storm Trooper" came from this Canadian reference in WWI (cool, huh?). Anywho, to make another movie reference (an American one): "With great power comes great responsibility" ("Spider Man"…hehe, me and my love of heroes). Since the Canadians won their ability to command themselves on the field (to an extent), they were expected to carry more strategic weight and take on more dangerous points on their own…so now you know: when asking privileges of an Empire, know that it WILL be a double-edged sword when granted. Count on it. (Historical fact people)

Yep. If you haven't already guessed, Alfred isn't the most conventional person around, but he does have his heart in the right place when it counts and remembers his mission. Yes, he totally pulled an Arthur out of his hat in getting Matthew let him come along with him (see Arthur, the boy DOES pick up what'cher puttin' down). At the same time, Matthew is pullin' his own Arthur as he's got that double-edge sword up and ready. Last chapter we saw a more subdued side of Matthew, something a little more compassionate and a little kinder. This chapter, we have the Matthew that comes out when he's butting heads with another immovable force, under the coming stress of returning to the front, and adding to that stress is the weight of all Alfred's told him. If Matthew seems a little angry…good, he should. I would be. Hell, I'd be DECKING my brother for pullin' crap like that, so kudos to Matthew for such saintly restraint! *Applauds* Bravo, good man, bravo!

Oh, and one more thing: in regards to the hero bit with Alfred – yes, Alfred still sees himself as a good guy, he still idolizes men he believes are heroes (Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Wilson, ECT), but in my head-cannon he doesn't really consider himself one PERSONALLY yet until later in time. Why? Because to be honest…America didn't really achieve "hero status" until WWII. However much I wanna just puff out my chest and Alfred's too and go all cannon, screaming at the top of our collective lungs "I'M THE HEROOOOOO!" (and trust me, its tempting), I can't. Not in good conscience and not if I wanna stick to the historical good-faith of this story. *sigh* While its killing me not to, you'll all just have to bear with me and put up with a "non-obnoxiously-self-proclaiming-heroic" Alfred for a little while longer. *bows* My sincerest apologies…*smirks*…Psst – the Battle of Belleau Wood is coming. ;)

Yuuuulp. Americans were NOT seen as far north as the Flanders area around this time of the war. But German snipers were EVERYwhere, and quite good too (REMEMBER THAT, it's a hint!). Sooooo, an American waltzin' around there is gonna raise a few eyebrows (especially since 'Doughboy' uniforms looked quite different from the British/Dominion/French ones). Also, given the Germans are now going to be on the hunt for an American traveling with a bunch of Canadians…yeah, Matthew's foresight is just awesome. XD

PLEASE DON'T THROW ANYTHING AT ME! The separation is…relatively temporary…HEY, at LEAST Arthur is awake—ACK! *suddenly speared with a saber* DX OH, COME ON!

And now you all know why Lukas not only spared Arthur and Alfred's lives, but also stuck around. X3 I know I had a lot of questions about that back in chapters 11 and 12, so there ya go! *salutes*

Frankfurt is a city in Germany… I have family there. I'd like to visit sometime.

Just breakin' this down…I guestimate that the ENTIRE trip through the tunnels took approximately 5-6 days to reach the end of the line where Alfred managed to get him and Arthur topside. There was a full day from there that it took to get to Arras (ambulance included), and now Arthur has just discovered that he's been there for three and Alfred's been gone for two of them. =o.o= Hope that's not confusing anyone, cause all these numbers are just makin' my damn head spin. =_=

Phenobarbital is a barbiturate, which (in as English and none medicallish as I can make it) is a super sedative and an anticonvulsive (which means it combats seizures). It was actually a German product first made around 1902, and later refined around 1904 before it was marketed in 1912. It's STILL one of the most commonly used sedatives/anticonvulsive medications of today. Used as prescribed and under proper doctor supervision, it's a great medicine that can help people. However, as with almost anything else, too much of it can be extremely harmful…or in this case, fatal. Overdoses of the drug can cause renal failure, depress the repertory system, and send people into shock. It deals with the central nervous system, and therefore it could wreck havoc on ones health if not administered properly. Just so you know, Phenobarbital IS a barbiturate, which, if you know anything about lethal injection (which is the most common form of capital punishment in the United State) is a category of one of the three drugs administered to shock the system, stop breathing, and stop the heart. So there ya go. This woman was trying to do just that to Arthur. XD Good thing the man retained all his mad reflexes and awesome pirate skills, eh?

German Translations:

"They had Familien, they were meine Familie! Y-you…you…Du bist ein Monster!" ["They had families, they were my family! Y-you…you…You are a monster!"]

"Ist er tot?" ["He is dead?"]

"Nein, dafür habe ich ihm nicht genug Beruhigungsmittel gegeben." ["No, I did not give him enough sedative for that."]

"Jetzt ist die richtige Zeit dafür." [Equivalent to: "No time like the present."]

"Sir - ich kann nicht! Jemand würde Verdacht schöpfen - !" ["Sir – I can't! Someone would get suspicious - !"]

"_Verstehen Sie, Fräulein_?" [Oooo~ I got shivers writing that one. XD Arthur basically said, "Do you understand, madame?"]

Well, I think that about covers everything! This will be the last chapter I'll likely be posting until I return from my Spring Break study abroad trip to the U.K. (YAY, I get to go visit the land of Arthur! WOOOOT!). XD I'll try to work on chapter 15 (WHICH HAS BEEN STARTED) while I'm there, but my itinerary is pretty full and I'm really excited about traveling around Britain with my colleagues and the British students/citizens hosting us. X3 I promise to update as SOON as I get back, but until then I hope you all have enjoyed this chapter and look forward to picking up the pace and getting more action as we kick it into high gear! We're in the last leg of 1917, ladies and gents and 1918 was the last year of EVERYTHING. We're gonna hit it none stop commin' up, so I hope you're ready. 83 If Arthur's last action wasn't an indicator, you'll soon find out just what "counter-attack" means in the greater language of war. As always, to my readers, reviewers, subscribers, stalkers (lol), fans, and overall AMAZING people who brighten my day by sending my phone and e-mail box into spasms letting me know you're liking the story…THANK YOU SO, SO, SO, SO-SO-SO MUCH! You ALL make my day and if I could thank you all by name again and again and again and again I would in every single chapter! You are all so amazing and I love ya all! Till next time my dears! *salutes* La author is OUT!

Sincerely & With MUCH Loves,

_General Kitty Girl_


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, and Violence

Chapter Fifteen Characters:

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/ Matthew Williams

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XV

_"Two Histories."_

"Son of a _bitch_!"

"Alfred, if you would hold still this wouldn't be so difficult."

"Easy for you to say! You're not the one getting fucking barbed wire ripped out of your -! GAH!"

Matthew would have rolled his eyes if he weren't spending the majority of his energy practically sitting on his brother while trying to delicately remove the tight stitching from his back. The process wouldn't have been nearly so bad for either of them had the skin not completely healed with the black wire still fully embedded. Normally, the wire would have degraded harmlessly or turned frail enough to remove without trouble as the natural enzymes broke down the materials over time, but Alfred's accelerated healing just made for unforgiving wire sown into perfectly healthy skin. Matthew was amazed Alfred hadn't even noticed the massive stich job until after the first few days out of Arras, but then again it hadn't seemed to bother Alfred until his skin began having an allergic reaction to his borrowed Canadian uniform.

When he had finally removed the Canadian tunic that evening, his skin was an angry red, and when Matthew removed the curious bandage on his back he found the source of a lot of Alfred's recent bellyaching.

"_HEY_, easy, Dr. Jekyll! Hippocratic oath, for cripes sakes!"

Now the Canadian really did roll his eyes and glared down at his brother who was glaring back at him over his shoulder. "First, Dr. Jekyll was English," he began, suddenly snipping a section of wire and making the man beneath him wince. "Second, he was the good guy in the story," he continued, grasping said wire with his fingers before snipping another section, "and finally, one actually needs to be a doctor for that whole 'thou shall not cause harm' thing to be applicable."

With a sudden yank, Matthew ripped the wire clean out of the skin on Alfred's back, making the American shout out a curse before crushing a fistful of dirt in his grip. His face was to the ground muffling the rest of his profanity, and Matthew was all the more grateful for it.

The last of the thick black thread removed, Matthew calmly threw the bloody wire away and dabbed at the welling holes lining the long scar along his brother's spine. He had asked Alfred how he got the injury when it was first discovered, but Alfred assured him he had no idea and hadn't even been aware of it until his reaction to the uniform began. While the reason for the patchwork remained a mystery, there was only one person who could have gotten close enough to an injured Alfred and successfully pulled off a job like this…so Matthew knew this was Arthur's handiwork.

Once the blood was cleaned off, Matthew gave Alfred a light pat on the back and lifted himself off the man. He'd been straddling his facedown brother for the better part of five minutes after having wrestled him into letting him remove the stiches. For all his brother's strength and formidability, the man had some of the lowest pain tolerance levels he'd ever seen…

Well, perhaps that wasn't fair. He had seen Alfred take a thrashing during the Revolution and still keep to his feet against the whole of England. During 1814 the man had had his heart set on fire and still managed to fight for another year. When Alfred felt he had a cause to fight for, there was no force of man or nature that could make him back down…in truth, it was one of Alfred's more double-edged qualities.

But when it was enduring pain simply because it had to be endured? Oh heavens, it was hard to remember they came from the same gene pool.

When Alfred finally managed to calm down and reevaluate his vocabulary, he pushed himself to his feet and hissed as his still-burning skin protested the movement. Everything from the neck down looked like he had an atrocious sunburn and the Canadian didn't envy him for it. Matthew had never seen a reaction like this before…regardless, he still would have forced Alfred to wear the uniform if it meant protecting the lives of his men.

He felt bad for Alfred's suffering, but his priorities were firm.

"You know, I think you inherited Arthur's thing for sadism," the American growled, gingerly brushing the dirt from his irritated skin. "He seems to get a kick out of making me bleed too."

Matthew crossed his arms and scowled. "Trust me, Alfred, listening to you cry and whine is not how I get my jollies."

The American snorted and went to bend down and retrieve his shirt but stopped halfway. Matthew's eyes followed his brother's and he sighed. He knew Alfred was in no rush to aggravate his already inflamed back even more, and putting on the top would definitely do that.

"Who knew I'd be allergic to Canadians?" Alfred began with a halfhearted smirk.

Matthew twitched. "You're not allergic to Canadians, Alfred, just to the wearing of another nation's uniform."

Alfred made a face, standing back up and rubbing his arm. "This didn't happen when I was a kid and used to wear England's stuff…"

"You were still a colony then and technically you were still English. I suppose the same concept goes for me…I too wore French regalia before becoming England's colony," Matthew replied, looking away in thought. "…I suppose I'd have a similar reaction to what you're having now if I ever wore French colors again."

Sky-blue eyes turned towards the Canadian standing not far from him. They were the only people near the edge of the river where the unit had made camp in the twilight hours. The group had only been there for a short time, resting while the sun was setting and only moving again when the world became dark enough to conceal them. It had been like this for the past four or five days with no incidents.

The closer they got to the north the fresher the craters got, the redder the waters of the river ran, and the thicker the smells of fire and gunpowder became. These brief periods of rest would soon be memories and the miraculous inaction they saw would be a thing of the past.

Alfred knew he wouldn't get any more opportunities like this….

"Does it upset you that you couldn't wear French colors again?"

Matthew remained silent for a moment, looking contemplative at the darkened water rolling past them. "Does it upset you that you'll never wear British colors again?"

"Nah-uh," Alfred said, lightly wagging a finger at the Canadian. "Don't start getting all Socratic on me. I'm being serious. Does it really upset you that because of England you can never wear French colors again? I mean, the first time we met I gave you the chance to get back at England for taking Canada in the war and you turned me down. Every other opportunity to oppose him after that, it's like you…you passed it up. So you can't blame me for wondering if maybe you…maybe prefer being under British rule."

Matthew's eyes met his brother's, but he didn't say anything as Alfred continued.

Alfred swallowed. "After all England's done to you…why do you still go out of your way to care about…it…?"

"…Don't you mean Arthur?"

Alfred flushed and looked down. "…Same difference, right? Just because you side with the guy doesn't mean you're obligated to take care of him…"

Matthew made a thoughtful sound and slid his hands into his pockets. "Have you ever thought about separating America from Alfred?"

Alfred immediately froze.

"I think about separating Canada from Matthew more often than I probably I should. Sometimes I look at myself and see two histories," he began after a moment, "I see the history where I began as a spirit among a native people, then a colony under a nation of lilies; suddenly I was burning and roses grew out of the ashes. Other times I see myself as a lost child, adopted by a very kind and overly doting man who was murdered while I was too small to do anything about it. Sadly…that history ends with the realization that monsters exist, and spending the rest of my life trying to figure out who the true monsters are and how to survive them."

Alfred was silent. He couldn't bring himself to look back at his brother, but his words wouldn't stop playing over and over again in his head. Seeing two histories? Alfred had never thought about it that way before, but a part of him was so drawn to the concept. He tried to focus on the original question of what that had to do with Matthew's obligation to Arthur, but he couldn't help it. Two histories…two histories…it just wouldn't stop playing in his head.

"I told you before that Canada forgave England because it helped us survive. Canada's history allows forgiveness and instills great loyalty for our sovereign…But Matthew's history is mine and mine alone; it's the one thing I don't entirely share with my people and it's the part of me that will never forget what happened during that night of the Seven Years War," Matthew continued, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I care about the affairs in Europe because the greatest Empire in Europe is still my ruling country. I care about Arthur…because it's what a good leader and a good son does."

Alfred winced and this time internally shied from his brother's words. Alfred had always tried to be a good leader for his people; it's the reason why he took up arms with them in every war since the beginning, and twice against the man and country that raised him. He hadn't acknowledged Arthur as his father since the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783…it was the day he told Arthur that this affirmed that he was no longer his son…

Arthur never said a word when he left that day, but Alfred knew he must have felt the same terrible collapse inside when both of their names dried on the parchment…England's signature was a little smaller and shakier than he remembered.

A good leader? Maybe. A good son? …As of 1783, he didn't have a father anymore.

So…why did he still care about Arthur too?

When the Revolution solidified his status as a nation, his human side was overwhelmed for decades as his nation built its foundation. It was good to feel emotionally numbed after the war; it helped him focus on the government and aid his elected officials with setting up his county. During periods when his nation needed the most strength, his other side demanded he take a more aggressive leadership role in government – much as he had been for the past 3 years. But when his nation was settled and at peace…the chains that held him in Washington lessened and his human side became more predominate. As the Revolution shifted farther and farther into the past and his country became more stable, Alfred selfishly fought to keep his human side at the forefront of his person, wanting more than anything to remember that living in freedom was what it had all been for…not dwelling on what life was before it.

That constant battle between his two sides made him think that he would always have to choose one or the other; personal peace was impossible and any kind of happiness would come at the cost of failing his people or losing his humanity. But Matthew seemed to have found a way to consolidate the two sides in such a way that they worked together in matters of national importance and were safely separated when Matthew needed personal time, without jeopardizing anything.

Matthew seemed to have found the critical balance Alfred had been searching for nearly all his life. He wondered if he could ever implement his theory of two histories and somehow find an equilibrium of his own…maybe then he could learn to be a more effective leader, perhaps even mend things with his allies here in Europe.

But…would that really bring him peace?

"Are you happy with two histories, Matthew?" Alfred asked, tone soft and contemplative. "One seems like a heavy enough burden, doesn't it?"

Matthew opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "Its only a burden if you let it be, Alfred. My histories are more like lessons to me. One teaches me to remember past mistakes, perseverance, and that my nation has a strong identity regardless of who wears the crown. The other is a lesson in the kinds of monsters bred by the sins of greed and ambition…it keeps me humble, compassionate, and wary," he replied and finally violet and sky-blue eyes met and held. "It's the best reminder I have to keep me human."

…Human…its what he was fighting to remain, and what Arthur had said would doom him.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from Matthew's, but somehow he felt the feeling was mutual. His twin continued to hold his stare, looking as though he was seeing whether or not his words had their intended effect before his expression hardened and he looked back in the direction of the unit beyond them. Alfred broke from his thoughts long enough to follow his line of sight and saw a soldier waving to get Matthew's attention from a distance.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments before the Canadian turned away from his American brother and grabbed the gear he'd left on the bank while tending to him. Alfred watched before Matthew stood and began heading for towards the camp. "I'll need to reprimand him for being so careless about snipers, but we need to move out shortly anyway. I'll give you a few minutes to get ready…alright?"

Alfred held in his sigh and nodded, meeting Matthew's eyes one last time and giving him a small thumbs-up. "Yeah…and…thanks, Matt. Sorry for being such a pain in the ass."

Matthew returned a small smile of his own and shook his head. "Since you're still going to be a pain in the ass later, I'll take that apology with a grain of salt."

Alfred chuckled as his brother turned to go, heading back up the low-rising hill and his man and camp. He, however, remained by the river looking down at his borrowed Canadian uniform with a mild expression of distaste…and then resignation.

In neither of his histories could he say he'd been the best continental neighbor or brother to Matthew…so to suffer the discomfort of the uniform for the sake of Matthew's soldiers seemed a small price to pay. The American pulled on the offending tunic and hissed as the burning sensation swept across his skin. He bit his lip and dealt with it while buttoning up the front.

"Arthur would get a kick out of this."

* * *

_This was so wrong. This went against all the rules and if _he_ ever found out, there'd be no telling what he'd do. Lately, it seemed to be a favored pastime of the crown to find new ways to bully or punish its colonies, and the man who promised to always protect them_ _did nothing to stop it… The young man felt as if he had been backed into a corner and left no choice about his actions. Talking had failed, pleading had failed, and even passive-aggressive protest had failed! He wasn't out to punish anyone; he just wanted them to listen!_

_Even if the great embodiment of the Empire found out the reason for his charge going north, that it was as much an act of defiance as it was a proactive step towards peace, the very fact that he had done it would be wrath-invoking. _

_Compared to what was coming, however…this was only a drop in the preverbal bucket._

_His people had broken so many laws already; all of them in the name of something Alfred felt to the core of his being was right but couldn't argue in words. Adams had told him it was because it had to be argued with guns instead, but Alfred kept the real reason to himself…_

_He just didn't understand how something could feel so right, yet be against every lesson he's ever been taught. He felt his heart beating incredibly fast at the mere mention of traitorous thoughts, but rather than feeling apprehensive…he felt excited, drawn to it, and it honestly scared him. When his people began to see themselves as something more than subjects and something more identifiable with their land, he had begun to feel them and hear them in a way he had never experienced before. It was as if their collective heartbeat crept up and suddenly seized hold of his own. After years of fighting it, trying so hard to block it all out and remain loyal and be the good son he'd always been…he couldn't anymore. This new heartbeat, one that beat in time with his people, was beginning to sound and feel increasingly like the beating of a war drum. But even though the sound of it scared him, the wake of this merger had brought something that overpowered the fear…_

_Happiness…wholeness._

_He was whole now, the missing fragment of his being finally found its home and that knowledge helped him turn away from the radiance of a crown he realized he never cared about. It also helped him see the one thing he did care about, the last thing holding him back from completing that last stage of the ritual that promised to solidify his wholeness forever…_

Him_. He still cared…and still loved him too much to turn his back on the man who raised him._

_It was why he had broken the rules in coming here. He hoped he could find the answer to his prayers in the fabled True North he had been forbidden to cross into. He learned fifteen years ago, after the war ended, that the connection he had always felt with the north was a real thing, and that another colony like him existed up there. He hadn't been alone in this world, the New World as all of Europe called it, and the thought filled him with such incredible joy._

_He had a brother._

_No matter how many times he begged or protested, his guardian never gave in and was absolutely firm on the point that the two were not to meet. The final word was set that the north was incredibly unstable at the moment and far too dangerous to allow travel between the two. But the boy knew it was a lie. He discovered years later from the men he now worked with, that England was very wary of uprisings in North America…and that the crown was going to start sending safeguards to ensure the areas in most fear of rebellion were quickly isolated. Alfred hadn't believed them until a mass of red-garbed soldiers appeared in the Boston Harbor; terrible realization soon began to dawn on him as the British troops began to spread: Britain wasn't isolating Canada, it was isolating him._

_Those he'd sworn his loyalty to, the one he'd given his heart to, considered him a threat that needed to be contained. Like treating a cancer that spread tainted cells to pure ones, a tourniquet was being placed on him and his people just as outsiders were being prevented from reaching them. American harbors were being micromanaged or shut down, businesses levied to keep people subservient, and positions of government standing were being reevaluated for people with absolute loyalty to the crown. It was too much too fast, and between the outrage of his people and the way it now magnified inside of him he couldn't help but act. Just as his people tried getting the attention of their Lords in their sovereign country, he had tried to seek out his mentor and understand why he felt these actions needed to be taken. He had received only distant silence or half-truths in return._

_It made him angry. _

_For the first time in his life he felt passion fueled by anger, and for the first time in his life he had disobeyed – in Boston in 1770 and 1773, and in Philadelphia and Annapolis last year. Things were becoming more and more extreme in America, but the tipping point hadn't been breeched yet. While coming here was yet another act of disobedience, he hoped this one would deter the violent explosion even the majority of his own people were counting on._

_Popular opinion held that war was inevitable, but he wasn't willing to believe that just yet._

_If he could win enough allies before the Continental Congress sent out their Declaration, perhaps he could dissuade the Empire from war and make a decision that led to a pen and parchment rather than guns._

_He knew where he'd stand if war really was as unavoidable as they said…but he still couldn't imagine himself looking down the barrel and seeing hurt filled green eyes on the other end._

_Suddenly, the door behind him opened. Alfred quickly turned and faced the cloaked figure now entering, hastily closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a sharp creak and scrape of metal as the lock met its sheath. The sounds echoed around the enclosed stone walls for a second that seemed to last forever, and neither person spoke as the cloaked being turned to face the other._

_Alfred watched the man with wide blue eyes shining with curiosity, excitement and nervousness. The myriad of emotions was met with obscured silence by the still-hooded man, but Alfred could feel the other's tension as it mirrored his own. Neither moved, neither spoke, but it wasn't from a lack of desire._

_It was fear._

_The man by the door twitched his hand into motion, bringing it up to his hood and removing it. Soft blond hair caught the flickering light of the torches along the walls, pale skin looking near translucent against the dark traveling cloak, and nervous violet eyes that shone brightly with curiosity that could not be masked. It was the first time either of them had met, but they weren't exactly strangers._

_They were both representations of the same continent that had birthed them, and the avatars of the coveted New World all of Europe had fought for._

_Alfred was the first to speak, and he couldn't help but smile. "You're Matthew Williams, right?"_

_The young man seemed to come out of his trance and blinked, then nodded. "Yes…it's…nice to finally meet you, Alfred Kirkland."_

_Though he winced at the mention of his surname, Alfred was positively beaming and gave an amiable laugh. "Alfred, just Alfred. Considering what we are to each other, do you feel the need for formalities?"_

_Matthew looked the other down from head to toe, eyeing the American's middle class colonial attire, complete with an empty holster and sheath at his hip. The Canadian unconsciously thought of the rondel dagger hidden in the sheath along his own thigh. It seemed that the British guards stationed at the fort had only allowed the American to enter if he was unarmed, while they only disarmed Matthew of his small pistol without going a step farther._

_Alfred followed the Canadian's eyes to his unarmed state before looking back at the man and smirked. "I got an entire song and dance of the rules of __Fort Ticonderoga on the way in. I'm really grateful to you for setting this up, what did it take to convince the guards here to allow it?"_

"_The men guarding the entrance are friends of one of my caretakers. He's a good man and, while he had his reservations about me doing this, agreed to tell the men you were here on terms of peace and only negotiating a minor business venture that required privacy," Matthew replied, letting his arm fall hidden beneath the cloak again. "…I trust my aid completely, but you and I both know that word of this will get back to Lord Kirkland one way or another…Are you prepared to accept that?"_

_Alfred lowered his gaze for a moment before locking guarded eyes with the other. "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't, and neither, I think, would have you."_

"…" _Matthew considered the man and his answer for a moment, then nodded and finally took a step into the room, ready to begin._

_The room of the fort they had been allotted for the meeting was a small conference room, usually for lower ranked strategy meetings and the occasional guard looking for a quiet place to slip away and sleep. There was an unflattering rectangular table in the center with enough room for one man at a time to walk on either side. The long room had no windows and only small ventilation shafts that functioned to let the torch smoke escape rather than to filter air in. It was a stuffy place, but it would serve its purpose; this really was a strategy meeting of sorts…or at least Alfred hoped it would be._

"_I really wish our first time meeting were under different circumstances, but sadly all of my previous…requests, were denied," Alfred began, giving his brother an apologetic smile. "Apparently, Lord Kirkland thinks I'm a potentially bad influence."_

_The bitterness at the mention of their master's name did not escape Matthew, and the Canadian eventually approached the table to where the edge still separated them. "While I cannot speak frankly of my opinions of Lord Kirkland's judgment, I will say that I prefer to make my own decisions about who I associate with. So, now that we're here, what made you so bold as to bypass the law and Lord Kirkland to see me?"_

_This wasn't just a matter of violating their primary caretaker's personal law; this was also a violation of crown law that forbade either colony from making any international contact. Without a crown representative presiding over matters, negotiations of any kind between them or their governments were prohibited. Most of the reasons were trade related, but the unspoken ones dealt with treason…technically, what Alfred wanted to talk about was treason._

"_Have you heard of the state of many of my colonies recently?" Alfred asked._

"_Word of unrest has reached Quebec, where I spend most of my time. I know several regiments formally stationed here have been moved south to your areas," the Canadian replied._

_The American's expression tightened, but he nodded. "Yes, mostly to Boston. They've completely taken over the harbor and have presently shut it down. This is causing widespread hardship among my colonists, and to make matters worse our final pleas for representation in Parliament have been ignored. This is causing a lot of financial and political strain, but compounding this is the new ordinance that forces people to surrender private homes, land, and lodgings to soldiers now increasing in numbers from cities to towns. The situation is getting worse…and Dad won't talk to me long enough to do anything about it."_

_Matthew paused for a moment, his eyes becoming more critical before choosing to proceed carefully. "Are you're hoping he'll talk to me?"_

_Alfred's eyes widened quickly, the American bringing his hands up in a rapidly waving motion as if to dispel the misconception. "No, no! I mean, it's not that I think he doesn't talk to you, but about this I really don't think he'd listen even if you tried as hard as I've been." The American averted his eyes somewhat, looking disheartened by this fact. "He doesn't really listen to anyone anymore."_

"…" _As if his brother had finally said something intriguing, Matthew took another careful step forward, slowly edging his way along the table. "I can't argue with that, but that still leaves me wondering why you would think to come to me for aid. I don't know what you know of Lord Kirkland's relationship with me, but I can't imagine it being anything of what you have…I, for one, have never addressed him as father."_

_Alfred looked like he'd been bitten and snapped to attention, looking back at his brother once again. He hadn't noticed that Matthew was getting closer, but now his senses were suddenly piqued to the possibility of a threat. He hadn't known what triggered it, but he had a sudden awareness that he couldn't see the other man's hands…and that made him uncomfortable._

"…_Are you armed?"_

"_Why would I tell you if I was?"_

"_I didn't come here to fight."_

"_Nor did I. But it is my experience that fights are rarely planned things, especially when dealing with strangers."_

_Though Alfred felt pained to hear the last part, he accepted it for the truth it was. "Fair enough. Then returning the courtesy, know that I don't need weapons to disarm you if I have to…got it?"_

"_Duly noted."_

_Silence held between them for a long moment, and instead of the excited anticipatory silence of before, now the pair was sizing each other up as possible combatants. Matthew's hands remained out of sight and Alfred remained tense, but determined to see this meeting through. Hopefully without resorting to violence._

"_There's been talk among my colonies of war with England."_

"_Are you supporting it?"_

"_On the contrary, I'm trying to avoid it."_

"_How?"_

"_With a show of alliances. One of my people, and man named Franklin, is very respected in many places in Europe, and has already embarked on the possibilities of gaining open support with several powerful countries. Right now, England is still recovering from the war here and in Europe and is in no condition for another one. I'm hoping to persuade the Empire toward a peaceful resolution with the colonies if the threat of war is a real enough factor," he said, and gave his brother an earnest expression. "By colonies, I mean all the colonies. If you help us then you benefit just as we do. A combined front here in North America would be the start of a movement toward more freedoms and better treatment of colonists by Britain."_

_Matthew's face remained blank, but his eyes were somewhere between not believing what he just heard, and being rather amused by it. "…Forgive me, Alfred…but you do realize this is the British Empire you're talking about. The Empire fears no army or alliance of any kind in the world. It is the modern day Rome."_

_Alfred took a deep breath. "Forgive me, brother, but I've been British far longer than you and know my father country quite well," Alfred retorted, a hint of a bristle showing beneath his still cordial tone. "I'm still hoping Dad will come to his senses, but if not I know what I'm up against."_

_Matthew chose not to comment on the slight, but not because he started to see the stirrings of the other man's temper. "I find it hard to believe someone who knows the British Empire is ready to go to war with them without so much as an army who can at least match their power. Even if we were to combine forces, England knows alliances fail all the time, especially when the central command of the enemy is too weak to support itself, let alone its allies. Even if you allied yourself with the half of the world the Empire doesn't own, I doubt they would quirk so much as an eyebrow."_

_Alfred's eyes narrowed, but Matthew decided to twist the knife a little deeper and drive the point home. "If you can't stand on your own, England will never respect you or any attempts you make towards war or peace."_

_Suddenly, Alfred's clenched fist slammed down hard onto the table, making a deafening bang in the room and startling Matthew. The Canadian immediately put distance between himself and the American, but Alfred made no attempt to go after him. Glaring blue eyes were dark and lit with angry fire, focusing solely on the wide violet ones staring at him in turn. The tension pulsating around Alfred was nearly palpable, and Matthew's hand found itself clutching the hilt of the rondel beneath the cloak._

"_There is a social contract between a government and its people, and those bastards back in London have broken it too many times not to be made to answer for it. America is not a second-class tax or resource pool, nor are my citizens second-class Englishmen. We're not ignorant and uneducated children who do not understand that our rights and liberties are being stripped from us day by day, and we are not subservient cattle who simply accept a fate to be used and sacrificed for the whims of masters. Just because every other colony under the thumb of the Empire downcast their eyes and accept this doesn't mean we have to," Alfred stated, his words passionate and fierce as his volume dropped in pitch, a venomous stare aimed at his brother. "Just because no one else is willing to stand up and do something about it doesn't make us wrong for being the first."_

_Matthew's fear at the sudden outburst slowly melted into cautious understanding before the American's final comments made him stiffen. A trill of indignation raced up his spine and his grip on the weapon at his side tightened. The first slight he could handle, in a way he had deserved it for offending the other first, but the second one was beyond uncalled for. _

_Whether Alfred realized the extent of his verbal slap in the face or not, Matthew felt his blood boiling._

"_You might have seen great changes in the past fifteen years, but that's all the time we've had to adjust from French to British rule. I don't expect someone like you to understand, given you've only ever known life under a crown of roses, but this transition has been far from smooth for us and not without its lack of resentment for all of Europe that has done nothing but rip us apart. We were forced from one master to another by the bloodiest means, and now you have the nerve to insinuate that we take this submissively?" The Canadian returned, only taking one step forward to reclaim some ground he'd lost. "We resist, Alfred Kirkland, but we do so in a way that differs from those who own us."_

_Alfred's only reply was a snort as he removed his hand from the splintered table. "And what way is that, Matthew Williams?" Alfred demanded, stressing Matthew's similarly English surname._

_"Time, strategy, and patience," Matthew replied without missing a beat. "Things you don't seem to know anything about."_

"_Have you forgotten the reason I came here? Why I came all this way to meet you? I'm _trying _to utilize a peaceful strategy and avoid war, but you seem to be questioning me at every turn and more interested in criticism than collaboration! If I needed doubters I would have stayed in America!"_

_Matthew took that bit of information in silence and something began to click into place. "…Who knows you're here, Alfred?"_

_The question seemed to throw the American, but he quickly attempted to recover and gave the Canadian a questioning glance. "What does that have to do with anything?"_

"_It means I want to know who your official backers on this venture are and who you are here representing," Matthew demanded, watching as Alfred suddenly seemed to be the one getting more nervous. "You came here wanting to enter into an official alliance, therefore you have to have members of your government who are just as willing to come to the table. So who knows you're here, Alfred? What government do you represent?"_

_None. _

_In truth, the leaders from his thirteen colonies who had come together to represent his people was neither official nor formally recognized by the crown, and even so the majority of them didn't agree with his suggestion of asking Canada for an alliance. Neither Arthur nor even the king knew about them, for if they did…death warrants would be issued and men he had come to trust and respect would be fugitives. France, Spain, and even the Netherlands saw these men as individuals with the potential to organize a campaign resistance against England, and that was the only reason they had shown interest in backing them. But everything right now was done in the shadows, all of it under the table rather than gathered around it. Alfred hated it to the core of his being, but he recognized the importance of secrecy and kept to it. He had hoped Matthew would see it the same way considering…considering…_

…_Considering what?_

_Alfred lowered his eyes and heard Matthew scoff, but didn't acknowledge it. What had he been thinking? That just because they were brothers that Matthew might somehow throw his lot in with him and take the riskiest of gambles imaginable? That the war Alfred knew had been hard on all parties involved, especially the Canadians, would somehow inflame his brother enough to hastily agree to an alliance against England? …Looking at it that way, he had been hoping Matthew were enough like himself that he would not only find validation in his cause, but be enthusiastic as well. Why? …Because then he might feel a little better and more confident about it himself. _

"_Why are you here, Alfred?"_

_Heart sunken and suddenly tired, Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. Why was he here? …He didn't even know anymore. "I was hoping we could help each other…but I see now that isn't going to happen."_

_Matthew lessened his grip on the dagger and slowly began to relax. "When people enter into an alliance there is an expectation of war, not the hope that a few signatures will deter it. My government does not have an army of its own and can ill afford to lose more men to conflicts. Economically, politically, and socially we're still struggling to make it through the day…A war with England is not something that would benefit my people now or in the future, and therefore I will decline your offer for an alliance."_

_Though Alfred knew it was coming, it still hurt to hear. Something inside of him seemed to fracture at the realization that his doubters had been right…_

_If freedom and equality were what he wanted, there could be no peace; he'd have to fight for it._

"_It was worth a try, right?" He said with a small smile._

_Matthew frowned and looked perturbed, "If the truth is what you're after, Alfred, then know that I think this was far from a good attempt. From what I've observed, your apprehension disconnects you from the governing body of your colonies…but you seem to have a strong connection with its people. You came here without official or nonofficial government support, which shows lack of impulse control and even less political understanding. If I had my guess…I'd say you're pretty new at this, aren't you?"_

_Alfred seemed startled by the comments, but couldn't help the feeling of resentment at being unable to deny his brother's words. "…I suppose it's that obvious?"_

_Matthew sighed and relaxed into a more casual stance. "…It hasn't been very long since I started feeling a stronger connection to my people than my land. When the population grew, my sensitivity just seemed to change from my environment to the beings in it. It takes time to balance, but I promise it does. As for this matter…" The Canadian said and met his brother's guarded expression. "…The best help I can give you is by forgetting this meeting ever happened. I know Lord Kirkland will interrogate me when he finds out, so the best I can promise is that I won't say anything that can be used against you."_

_The American winced at that and felt his temperature drop. He had thought about all the different things Arthur might do to him if he ever found out about him breaking the rules, but he hadn't considered what might happen to his brother. As the one who initiated contact, he automatically assumed he would take all the blame and that he would absorb all punishment by default. Realizing the childishness of that thinking now…God, that had been a foolish assumption._

_He should apologize. He wanted to apologize. But something inside of him was still angry and refused to let him. What good would his apology be, anyway? Would it spare Matthew from Arthur? Would it change the situation? No. It would only further solidify that his coming here had been in vain and that he was helpless against what was about to happen._

_War. War was about to happen, and that made him even angrier._

"_Don't bother."_

_Matthew's eyes widened and it was his turn to look surprised. Alfred, on the other hand, looked back at his brother with a defiant and determined expression. Anger was a very new emotion for him, but he found that in times he felt weak or overwhelmed it gave him strength. Right now, the rejection of his brother, the realization the peace with England was nothing but a dream, and that his people's calls for war were going to catapult him into spearheading it were too much for him._

_And Matthew was a convenient target._

"_If he asks you what this was about, you can tell him everything, top to bottom. The Declaration is already in the works and it's inevitably reaching London before July's end; by then, it won't matter what _Lord Kirkland _or the king know."_

_Violet eyes were wide and staring in disbelief. His first thoughts that his brother was just naïve and highly idealistic were replaced with thoughts that the man was mad. "…So you are supporting the war?"_

"_I told myself that if this failed then there was no turning back. So if you want your answer, then yes, I intend to stand with any resistance my people throw at England."_

_Matthew's eyes narrowed. "You're willing to go to war with a man you call father just like that?"_

"_I am a Son of Liberty, not a son of England, and you can tell him that, too, if it puts you in better standing with him."_

_Color suddenly washed over Matthew's face before he hissed, "You bastard."_

_Alfred smirked. "And we're brothers, so what does that say about you?"_

_Matthew was seeing red as he took a menacing step forward, but Alfred met his step, halting him, before the American turned toward the door and intentionally turned his back on the Canadian. Matthew was well aware Alfred knew he was armed, and the show of indifference was a direct challenge to see if Matthew would really do it._

_Though his hand was gripping the rondel tight enough to make his knuckles white, the blade never left the sheath and Matthew could feel his brother judging him for it. While it seemed Alfred was willing to resort to violence if pushed far enough, Matthew took a little more pushing to turn an unspoken threat into action._

_It was one of the starkest differences between them._

"_When this begins in the coming months, know that anyone who sides with Britain will be my enemy."_

"_I have no intention of siding with either of you. If you want to get yourself killed and he wants to be the one who does it, that's your business, not mine."_

"…" _Alfred didn't respond immediately, but he did unbolt the door and grasp the handle, pausing only a moment. "I hope we meet again when this is over."_

_Matthew turned to face the direction of the door fully. "Hope to pressure me into another alliance if you miraculously survive?"_

"_No," Alfred replied, and turned to look at the Canadian over his shoulder with dark blue eyes, "I want to see if I'll have inspired you to be more proactive in drawing your weapon."_

_The door creaked open and shut with a bang, leaving the Canadian alone in the dimming echo before silence fell._

_Suddenly, the man's body tensed and a flash of silver arched from beneath the cloak. He screamed as the pointed tip of the rondel slammed down into the table, splitting a section of the wood and leaving the blade standing like a monument. The ornate weapon had a silver hilt wrapped in oiled black leather, with a round sapphire at the end of the handle. It was his only inheritance from his real father…the weapon his Papa had used while trying to kill _Angleterre _in his defense. This was the last proof his father had cared about him before the government of France carelessly surrendered him to England in exchange for more profitable colonies. He had only recently begun carrying it…and tonight he hadn't wanted to leave his lodging without it._

_He hadn't known what to expect upon meeting the true son of _Angleterre_, but the small part inside him that still hated Lord Kirkland for what he'd done to his father had made him think he could avenge him somehow. But while his father had returned to life with the dawn after that horrible night, Alfred would never have woken again…_

_Kill a nation whose heart still beat in his or her native country, their bodies repair. Kill a colony with no country to declare a heart…they are gone forever._

_He could think of no greater way to make one of the men he hated most suffer, but seeing that look in Alfred's eyes and knowing war was so inevitable…it would make him suffer far more to have to kill Alfred himself. Part of him derived a twisted pleasure from that knowledge, but the larger part of him felt nothing but shame._

_Looking at the dagger embedded in the wood, he hung his head. "Regardless of the victor…I'll be all that's left to pick up the pieces. Will either of you be so quick to want me spiteful and armed then?"_

_

* * *

_

The unit mustered out early that morning, staying within a mile of the river as they continued north. It was day six of the journey and the weariness was setting in as their pace slowed. What had been impressive progress began to diminish with each mile gained. To make matters worse the group atmosphere was now nervous and edging on jumpy.

It was brought to their attention last night that they were being followed, and no one liked the sound of that.

The soldier who had called Matthew back to camp last night was relaying a message sent from the scouts Matthew had deployed when he first noticed the beings trailing their party. Ever the one to air on the side of caution, he had sent a team of his best trackers to outflank the last known location of their pursuers and gather what information they could. It had been over a day since then, and the report from last night made Matthew's stomach curl.

Their shadows were indeed German, and based on the difficulty the Canadian team was having keeping up…they were good…very good.

And closing in fast.

The party was now less than three days outside of the Belgium area, but Matthew was in no rush to get to the front if it meant bringing a rear full of skilled and armed Germans with him. He made the decision to take a more roundabout route away from the river, straying along the more wooded areas to hopefully throw off their pursuers. He didn't need to explain his actions to his men as they trusted their commander wholeheartedly. Alfred, however…was a different story.

"Where are we going?" Alfred quickly asked after having caught up with his brother at the front.

For the most part, Alfred had either travelled alongside Matthew or at the rear of the group. While Matthew's men were disciplined and smart enough to know that toleration of the American was an example they needed to follow (though not all of them had the patience of their saintly commander), most made little attempt not to give Alfred the cold shoulder when he tried to befriend them. Although Alfred did make numerous attempts, after a while he simply resigned himself to the fact that the men were too tired and angry about the current situation to fraternize with an unfavorable American. Minus a small handful of the younger soldiers who didn't mind his company now and then, he accepted that the majority of the unit did not welcome his presence. When the need for social interaction became too much, he sought out his brother and Matthew was usually kind enough to indulge him.

Right now, however, he just needed to find out what was going on.

"A German hunting party has been following us for several miles," Matthew said, careful to keep his voice low for his brother's ears only as they trudged forward on the outskirts of the group. "I'm trying to keep off the well known routes and away from open areas…I don't want to give them any easy sniping or ambush opportunities."

Alfred growled and looked over his shoulder, blue eyes scanning the scattered woods of the landscape angrily. He knew he wouldn't be able to see any of the bastards trailing them, he knew enough from Arthur's lessons to know German trackers were some of the best, but they shouldn't be here. This was still Allied territory and knowing the enemy had infiltrated it made his heckles rise. Down in the tunnels it had taken everything to hold himself back when Central Forces marched by, but now he didn't have a pleading Lukas or an injured Arthur to worry about. Men had fought and died for this ground and they were still defending it even now; that enemies walked the very earth they bled for just seemed to defile that sacrifice.

It was also killing precious time. They needed to get to Belgium and detours were slowing them down.

"Do you know how many or where they are?" Alfred asked, still scanning the area.

Matthew shook his head, still skimming the terrain ahead himself. "I don't know. The numbers seem to change with every report and they're never in the same place for too long. My people are having a hard time keeping up with them, so it's impossible to keep accurate tabs."

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows and finally turned back to his brother. "If you don't know where they are then why did you choose this route? I get the whole off the beaten path bit, but this is really out of the way, bro."

"Neither my men nor I are very familiar with this territory. The last time we travelled north we were with the larger BEF and they made a loop west before curving east," Matthew explained, though not happily. "But at the present time we have little choice but to take to the less-travelled area…it provides the best cover."

They could scarcely afford any sort of confrontation at the moment. Given they had no idea of their enemy's size and strength, it would be foolish to openly challenge them so far from reinforcements. It was best to rob the enemy of as many strategic advantages as possible and deter them from trying to attack the group before they reached the Belgian border. While both brothers were aware the enemy's goal was likely to try and prevent them from meeting up with the main forces, perhaps luck would be with them and the Germans would see the cons outweighed the pros.

In Alfred's experiences, that never happened.

"…Hey Matt, did your scouts check out what was beyond this forest?"

The Canadian glanced at his brother before returning his eyes to the woods. "…I sent them to do so. I'm still waiting for a report."

"Ah-huh…and how long ago was that?"

The Canadian faltered for a moment, then his eyes narrowed and he looked increasingly uncomfortable. He could feel the anxiety of his men growing the longer they remained without word about the surrounding area; with the enemy following them and possibly surrounding them…it made his own nerves even worse. Alfred pointing out that it had been more than four or five hours since his scouts had gone ahead just left him even more disconcerted.

"Do you know something I don't, Alfred?"

"…In the Revolution, a couple tribes sided with us and taught our troops a thing or two about wilderness warfare. One of the most effective methods we used against the British was sending a small contingency of men to shadow regiments, spook 'em, and funnel them into areas where we had larger forces entrenched and waiting," he said, sky-blue eyes slowly sliding over to the Canadian. "Before we could do that, though, we had to blind them…so we took out the scouts."

Matthew's expression became guarded to hide his concern. The growing feeling he had that something was wrong was now swelling. He briefly glanced back at his men, all of them in assorted walking patterns as they traversed the arboreal area on high alert. Rifles were held tightly in sweaty grips as tension sang in every body; Matthew was mirroring all of them while Alfred suddenly slowed and his head shot up.

Matthew froze next to the American and slowly pulled the bolt back on his rifle. "…Alfred?"

"Is something burning?"

There was a split second of off-guarded confusion before the smell of burning wood and earth reached the Canadian. Suddenly there was a chorus of excited shouts before a terrible cacophony of roars split the air. Both Alfred and Matthew spun as massive torrents of flame burst through the tree columns, sending men racing and engulfing trees in an inferno.

Neither avatar could believe their eyes as the tall limber makeup of the forest was consumed by great waves of fire. The unexplainable blaze dumbfounded them both as unnatural jet streams of red and orange burst forth from various locations beyond the burning foliage.

A pair of hands swiftly grabbed Matthew from behind and sharply tugged the Canadian into motion. "MOVE!" Alfred yelled, dragging Matthew from beneath a sky raining flaming branches.

The action seemed to snap the Canadian out of it, and upon recovering his footing he removed Alfred's hands and immediately began shouting orders for his troops to regroup and haul ass for the north. Taking command had brought some order to the chaos, but the burning hell around them was consuming air and sound fast.

They needed to get out of there.

Matthew felt a hand fisting the back of his uniform again, and before he knew it he and Alfred were tearing through the underbrush, away from the tidal wave of fire chasing them.

A good portion of the men were running ahead of them, most having been ahead of the pair before the wildfire broke out, but it wasn't taking much for the avatars to catch up. Alfred still had a hand on Matthew, keeping them together as the heat around them grew even more intense with each path the flames cut around them. The speed at which the fire was going was incredible, and Alfred had never seen a fire as oily and controlled in its direction.

It was as though it were from the breath of a dragon from one of those stories Arthur used to tell him as a kid.

"Oh my God –"

Alfred looked up after hearing his twin's breathless utterance and saw the streaming sunlight up ahead. There was a clearing through the break in the tree line and men were pouring through it into the promise of safety beyond. It was then Alfred realized why Matthew was so mortified by the sight and why the fire behind them was now the least of their worries.

"NO! TURN BACK! DON'T – !"

The pops and bursts of gunfire almost drowned out the screams of the troops who made it out of the forest. Alfred felt Matthew tense and suddenly convulse in his grip, making him falter in his step and force the American to grab his brother with both hands to keep him moving. Thankfully, the majority of the unit hadn't made it beyond the tree line and heard the sounds of the ambush, making them stop before they became targets themselves as they took cover behind whatever they could find. The fire was still quickly approaching from behind and Alfred took his own cover behind a dirt mound before dropping to one knee with Matthew.

The Canadian looked shaken and pale, his expression warring between grief-stricken and physically pained. Alfred swallowed hard and knew Matthew had felt when his men had been killed. He also knew he was feeling the magnified fear and panic of his men looking to him to get them out of this situation.

As it was, they were all going to burn to death or face a firing squad.

Alfred watched as his brother hardened his expression and determinedly pulled himself together. He released his twin as the violet-eyed blond drew himself up and called out to a Bombardier named Campbell, a young brunet who quickly scrambled over to his commander's position and received orders to remain low and take the right flank with two other soldiers, then report back on the conditions in the clearing. No questions were asked as the man quickly set about assembling his team and carrying out his orders, all the while his comrades were sitting tight and watching the fires behind them with incredible apprehension.

No one fled or lost faith that Matthew would have the answer that would get them out of this. Alfred watched as all eyes turned to the man beside him, every one of them waiting for their own orders so they might contribute to the group's success in survival. It really was awe-inspiring…but Alfred was the only one who saw the incredible tension and fear of uncertainty in his brother.

They might have all the confidence in the world in Matthew, but as someone who had been in Matthew's position before, Alfred knew Matthew did not reciprocate his men's confidence in himself.

"You were right, this was a trap," Matthew said softly, a sickening tone of anger in his voice. "They corralled us to this point and pulled a Somme, we played right into it."

Alfred tensed as the crackling of flames became louder behind him, but tried to keep his voice low and even when he replied, "I hate to say this, Mattie, but can we focus on the '_what the hell do we do now_' and worry about the '_what the hell happened_' later?" A loud crash resonated behind them, a tree crumbling to the ground, as the flames got even closer. "I say we've got less than a few minutes before we're either charbroiled or turned into target practice, so we need a plan, quick."

Matthew didn't get a chance to respond before German voices carried from beyond the tree line. Neither brother could make out what was being said at this distance, but before long an out-of-breath Canadian solider rushed over and fell to his knees on the ground before them.

It was the Bombardier, Campbell.

"Sir, th-there've gotta be…a-at least thirty to forty Germans at the line, and there's no telling how many more are holdin' up inside the town," the human reported, panting hard after having run as fast as he could with all his gear on.

Both Alfred and Matthew looked astonished, then instantly realized what had happened. This wasn't just an ambush. This was far too much planning and trouble to go through just to take out a small isolated unit, these were way too many soldiers behind unfriendly lines to be pulling off some random attack. These Germans had targeted them beyond the simple reason they were Allied forces, they were out to decisively wipe them off the face of the earth.

But why?

"How big is the town?"

"It's a small village, sir. From what we can see the buildings are small and primitive, most of them already shelled out, and the tallest point is a church tower in the center square. The Germans are positioned in a firing line between the town and the forest about 20 meters apart, but it looks like they're setting up mortars," he said, his words nearly rushing together as his nerves nearly overcame him. "Sir, they've got grey uniforms and _Stahlhelm_…"

While this information didn't seem to mean anything to Alfred, Matthew visibly tensed and became very silent. The American looked between the wide-eyed human and his brother, frustrated that he seemed to have missed the significance, and immediately tapped Matthew on the shoulder. "Hey, what the heck does that mean? Are they super Germans or something?"

Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and glared at his brother, but quickly tried to gather ideas for a plan as he spoke. "Something like that. They're Storm Troopers, elite German fighters who specialize in trench assaults and infiltration tactics," Matthew explained and tried to reign in his frantic mind. "They're really serious about killing us, it seems, which means there's no way we can get past them without fighting."

They were setting up mortars, which meant they were preparing to bomb them all to hell and back if the fire didn't drive them out into the open first. There were maybe forty Germans against his sixty Canadians, but these were Storm Troopers who had time and planning on their side. Numbers meant nothing if you didn't have a plan, and right now they had nothing.

Suddenly, Alfred turned toward Campbell and grabbed the kid by the collar to get his attention. "You said the Germans were in a firing line between the forest and the village, right?"

The man paled but nodded quickly.

"Then it doesn't matter if there are other Germans hiding in the town, they're not expecting us to survive the fire or the squad. They likely have a small contingency of men stationed along the flanks to ensure we don't try to funnel around the outskirts, but they can be easily dealt with if you know where to look. Someone's gotta take the bulk of the unit around the side of the village to safety while the others keep them busy long enough not to send the majority of the force after the others before they're clear of the fire. Once we're either at the river or clear of the forest the fire is out of the equation, then we can just focus on who's got more bullets and better aim."

Both Campbell and Matthew looked stunned, but neither recovered fast enough before Alfred plunged ahead, now turning his attention to Matthew.

"Chances are the Germans aren't going to risk getting roasted, so that means you've likely got snipers in low, easily escapable places, set up to slow you down and others to raise alarm along the flanks and alert those in town. Send a couple guys along the opposite side of the main group to throw a couple grenades and maybe send off a few shots into the village, then someone to make some noise in the front to keep the focus off the main unit gettin' the hell outta Dodge."

Matthew paled a second before his expression became reddened and angry. "You're insane! The chances that those men will die are extraordinary, and I wouldn't send anyone to take on the front – it's suicide!"

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "You've got a better idea? If not, then you and I both know it's the best shot; and don't worry about who'll be taking on the front," he said, and gave Matthew a smirk, "I intended to do that myself from the start."

Now Matthew's face really turned red. "You really are mad! _Never_ would I condone such an unacceptable plan, _ever_!"

Alfred's smirk hardened a bit. When the defiant spark in his eye flared, Matthew knew he had not chosen his words carefully enough. It was rare enough that Alfred willingly took orders from his own leaders, but never had he been one to take orders from those of other nations. It was almost in his DNA to resist any command given to him by another power, and Matthew internally screamed and wished he could wring his rebellious brother's neck. He was going to lose his life over some bold power play – Matthew was between being furious and desperately wishing his brother had just as much common sense as he did boldness.

He knew this plan really was all they had at the moment, but going about it in this way was not what Matthew wanted.

"That you find this '_unacceptable_', Mattie, means nothing."

Matthew winced as the very words he had spoken to Alfred 3 years before returned to haunt him.

Alfred pulled his rifle to the front and chambered a round, locking the bolt in place and keeping his eyes on his brother as someone behind them yelled for orders from their commander. "Just lead your group along the right side and out of the way, then tell the left group to hit and run. Once the left team has started a ruckus, then I'll start my fireworks. Better hurry though, the fire's going to overtake me well before it reaches them."

The violet-eyed blond felt a wave of sickness rise before he clenched his jaw and tore his eyes from his brother. Gripping his rifle tightly, the Canadian turned to the young Campbell and started issuing orders, sending the soldier to spread the word down the line and begin assembling the teams. Troops began to spring from their positions, keeping low and either moving quickly toward a fast-forming right column or making a much smaller left. Matthew watched as those he could likely save traded arms with those who were likely volunteering for their deaths, and the sickness began to rise again.

Looking back at Alfred, he couldn't help but feel predestined grief seize his heart, remembering that his brother was likely going to die too.

"You and Arthur were made for each other," He said, trying not to let his inner anguish show on his face. " But I can't come back and pick up the pieces this time."

Alfred didn't say anything as he looked away. "…I don't plan on dying, Matt. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Are we ever?"

To Be Continued…

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

First off, I'm so incredibly sorry this is so late. I honestly had pieces of this written while I was abroad, but I came home to a mess of catch-up and writer's block. Its only been a short time since I've been home, but I will say this…IT'S GREAT TO BE BACK IN THE STATES! I can't begin to explain how good it felt to touch back in OIA and see the American flag waving; I was so happy I was even giddy during customs interrogation (which really off put the TSA workers, but I was too ecstatic to be home to care). However much I LOVED the U.K. (and make no mistake, IT WAS AMAZING!), there's just no place like the good 'ol U.S. of A. for me. XD I could go on forever about the amazing experiences I had in the U.K., but that would take up about the current word count of this ENTIRE fanfiction, so I'll be brief:

**Pros:**

1.) The history all over the country was AMAZING! My history loving heart was going to BURST!

2.) All the people at the Universities and constabularies hosting us were such wonderful people. I've never had such a blast, and hanging out with everyone from students to officers was INCREDIBLE! (I totally get why all the cops in Heaven are British. XD Makes perfect sense)

3.) Totally got the Underground Tube system down PAT! 8D Only took two times getting hopelessly lost (like trying to get to Piccadilly and ending up at Westminster), I AM THE UNDERGROUND MASTER! …Mind the gap. ;)

4.) The blend of modern world with the rich history and culture was breathtaking. One of my favorite pictures is of the Tower of London with the vast city in the background. Its at night and all the lights just make the scenery blend to where you can't tell what was built yesterday or 100 years ago. I'd never seen anything like it in my life; it was nothing short of marvelous!

5.) We got invites to come back at anytime and I'm totally taking them up on it. :D The U.K. totally stole my heart!

**Cons:**

1.) The food…really was that bad…(even the locals laughed at us for ordering "British classics" when there was perfectly good pizza to be had), but the chocolate was ORGASMIC! (Sorry Hershey, I sold my soul for Cadbury)

2.) It didn't seem to rain anywhere but LONDON! D8 (We spent a week and a half in the country without a drop of rain, and suddenly we hit London and the sun ran away! What the hell!)

3.) It. Was. FREEEEEZING! DX Even this Jersey born girl was freezing her knickers off, and the locals were running around in SHORTS! D8 I was having heart palpitations!

4.) I nearly got run over by British drivers…more times than I can count. _ When in England, PLEASE look right before crossing the street! Eee-gats, it's the total reverse from what I'm used to!

5.) Most Brits I met had one of 3 nicknames for Americans: Cowboys, Yanks, or dumb-shits. o_o I was called at least one of each while I was there…thankfully, the first two I did not take offense to.

And that's the shortened version. :) Overall, I LOVED the experience and was so sad to leave after only a short time. I plan on going back for a longer stay at some point, but until then I'm thrilled to be Stateside again. Now, without further ado…

Thank you to my Beta Editor, Lady Hedervary, for being so amazing and editing this for me, and thank you to my Canadian Consultant, KitakLaw for helping me with all things Canadian and through a MASSIVE writer's block! THANK YOU GUYS! :DDD

ON WARD!

-The stuff Matthew is pulling out of Alfred's back is actually silkworm gut sutures…eew. Anyway, that was the suture of choice for wartime in WWI, and the strongest type carried by medics was thick, black, and very ugly lookin', but did the job. X3 That's just a medical tid-bit I wanted to add.

-The 1814 reference refers to the War of 1812 between the United States and Britain. The war was fought over a lot of things, but mostly it was a territorial dispute between the U.S. and Canada. Since Canada was still a colony of Britain, the Empire came over in force in the defense of Canada. One of the biggest events of the war was the American burning of York (modern day Toronto), which sparked British retaliation that signaled the one and only instance in U.S. history where Washington D.C. was invaded…and pretty much burned to the ground. Yeaaaah~…looooot's of bad blood came out of that war. But the U.S. stuck it out for another year of fighting before a peace agreement was reached. As for who won the war? …XD That's still up for debate.

-The Treaty of Paris signed in 1783, was the official succession of the United States from the British Empire. Though fighting in the American War of Independence ended in 1781, with the surrender the British are Yorktown (detailed in my first fic "_You Were So Small_"), it wasn't until all parties came to the table in Paris for the official treaty signing did America legitimately gain its independence. Ironically enough, there have been multiple Treaties of Paris throughout history…like, somewhere in the neighborhood of 25. XD Anyway, the ones I'll mention here are: ToP 1763 (that ended the Seven Years War in the American theater, and Canada was surrendered to Britain), ToP 1783 (yep, where Britain lost America…kick in the teeth for poor Arthur), and the ToP 1893 (that ended the Spanish-American War)….Hmm…well, if you need a treaty signed, apparently Paris is the place to do it. :) [Disclaimer: This section was edited after The General made a massively face-palm stupid mistake due to no sleep and having a cross-eyed moment. XD Thank you, KitakLaw for pointing it out!]

-All the rose references are references to England. The rose is the flower of England, and a "crown of roses" was a popular term colonial America had when answering who it was they answered to. Of course, in years leading up to the Revolution, this was said with a whole lot less pride and much more malice and sarcasm.

-I don't know of any official meetings between the American and Canadian colonies before the Revolution, but several sources do say that America had made attempts to gain the Canadians as allies…to which they responded by taking neither side, but agreed to harbor Loyalists and British troops during the conflict.

-The references to Boston in 1770 and 1773 were the Boston Massacre and the Boston Tea Party. A FANTASTIC depiction of the Boston Massacre can be found in KitakLaw's "_Brother of Absalom_" (its PHENOMINAL and tells the event like it happened rather than dolled up); in summary, citizens of Boston en massed a mob outside of the Custom House and British troops called to the scene were prodded and provoked into firing muskets into the crowd. Five citizens were killed and the men who fired were put on trial for murder. It was a GREATLY scandalized event and used to fan the flames of war in colonial America. As for the Boston Tea Party, colonists organized by the Sons of Liberty (a group of American patriots rebellious against the crown) in retaliation for England's Tea Tax dressed up as Native Americans, stormed the tea ships of Boston harbor, and…well, had a party by pitching them all into the harbor. XD It was a multi-million dollar mess by today's standards, and reeeeeally pissed off England (as you can well imagine). Another such "tea party" occurred in Annapolis and the rebellion in Philadelphia was one of the MAIN meeting hubs for the Sons of Liberty and later the Continental Congress (who coined and signed the Declaration of Independence and had the balls to send it to England).

-Mmm'kaay, real quick: if Alfred and Matthew seem a little OOC (even for my versions of them) in that flashback, please note that…it's a flashback. XD It is my belief that people have the capacity to change over time, I hold this belief for my national avatars too. Alfred, in my mind, is dealing with a lot of new emotions at one time, going through quite the growth spurt, and having to fight with both his thoughts and feelings and the newly amplified ones he's getting from his people. Matthew is as well, but in my mind its Alfred who physically develops faster while Matthew mentally and emotionally matures faster. XD Its something my Canadian Consultant and I had been playing with for a while, but we seem to agree that Canada really is a hullava lot more diplomatic and patient than the southern neighbor, especially in their earliest days. ;) I wanted to showcase that here. Hope I pulled off the teenage years well enough! (And yes, Alfred is totally pulling an "ass hole" moment. XDDD)

-I've begun the introduction here, but I'll do the official reveal of this VERY German weapon of war and battle tactic in the next chapter. For now, I'll only let you in on the little secret that the first battle between a pure American and German unit in WWI involved both this weapon and tactic…and it freaked the beegeezus out of the Americans who had never seen anything like it. More details to come later~!

-Bombardier is one of the lowest ranks in the WWI Canadian Army ranking system. Its like a Private for American forces. XD

-For our non-"Cowboy" movie fanatics out there, the phrase "get the hell out of Dodge" refers to the infamous Dodge City, Kansas here in the U.S. You won't find a more quintessential "Old West" town reference than Dodge City, which was known for cattle ranching and gun fighting. Ever heard of Wyatt Earp? ;) Look him up if you haven't. *tips hat*

Before I close this out, a few people have addressed questions to me about the story in reviews and notes to me. I'm so sorry that I haven't had time to reply to every one of them, but please know that if they're story related they will be answered as the story moves along. :) I try not to spoil too much! Also, I am so sorry I haven't been able to personally reply and thank all my commenters again, YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! I can't tell you how excited I get to see review, subscription, author favorite alerts – I even get giddy when I log on and just see page views on the neat little bar graphs gives ya! XD And THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THOSE WHO ADDED ME TO YOUR COMMUNITIES! Wow! I was floored to see that and am truly honored! All of you readers out there ROCK MY WORLD! You guys damn near move me to tears, T_T I love you guys! Thank you so, so much again and thank you so much for bearing with me after having been gone for so long. UNTIL NEXT CHAPTER (where its pretty much ARTHUR ARTHUR ARTHUR~), THANK YOU AGAIN AND *blows kisses* I LOVE YOU ALL!

Sincerely and with Much Loves,

_General Kitty Girl_


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Sixteen Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/ Matthew Williams

-O.C./ [Introduction at a later date]

- ;) A surprise

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XVI

_"Pull the trigger."_

It hadn't really occurred to him until that moment – watching the angry flames approach while organized German voices shouted behind him – that this was the first time since landing in France that he had been so completely and utterly alone. He had been among the best of company crossing the Atlantic, and at base camp he had been forced to trade his troops for Arthur. The Englishman had been all he had for the longest time before he'd willingly left him behind in Arras to keep going with Matthew.

Now? He had chosen to continue forward on his own, and he was having serious second thoughts.

He wanted to try and recall if he had ever encountered such a situation before in his long life, but it was impossible to focus on anything but the moment. There was so much happening around him and he was desperately trying to concentrate on what he was supposed to do. He had to wait for the Canadians along the left flank to start launching their pseudo-assault, which would be his cue to begin his real one with the arsenal left to him. He clutched the Mills Bomb Matthew had given him and clung to his rifle with his other hand. He mentally ran over again and again in his mind what he had to do, but to be honest with himself…the whole plan sucked.

God, he hated plans! They never went the way they were supposed to!

For one terrifying moment, panic began to rise in his chest. He swallowed thickly and screwed his eyes shut, trying to will the urgent need for action away and make himself wait for the signal. They only had one shot at this. If he went too early then he, those men, and more than likely Matthew and his group were as good as dead. He had to wait. The element of surprise was all they had and he couldn't blow it because he couldn't friggin' sit still.

-_Snap_-

Alfred's eyes flew open and locked onto an image in the burning forest that quelled the need to move.

He was now paralyzed.

The blackened silhouettes of man-like beings were approaching from out of the curtains of fire. Two directly ahead stood in a row advancing at an almost lazy march. The one in front was tall and draped completely in a dark leather trench coat that covered down to the heavy boots that seemed to make craters in the earth when he walked. The sleeves of the coat were long and wide, and black-gloved hands held onto a long spear that burned like a torch at the end. Alfred almost couldn't tear his eyes away from it, but traveling up to the face of this being left him unable to see anything else. A German helmet hung low over a pair of large shining mirrors where eyes should have been, and a grotesque stitched leather bag attached to a nonexistent face protruded like a muzzle from the dark visage.

It was a dragon-man. He didn't know what else to call it.

There was a horrible moment when the misshapen, non-existent face of the dragon-man looked up, and Alfred locked wide blue eyes with the flickering red mirrors beneath the helm. Alfred felt as though the fire had stolen every molecule of oxygen in his lungs; he couldn't breathe staring into that horrible face. He knew the man was little more than forty feet away, but his tunnel vision made him seem like the man was standing right above him.

The flaming spear rose in his direction and Alfred felt his heart try to beat its way out of his chest to escape his frozen body.

Suddenly, the world seemed to jolt back into reality when the sound of gunfire erupted behind him. The earth shook and an explosion echoed off the wall of timber around him. The weight in his right hand became real again, and without any warning to himself a stock slammed against his shoulder before he felt himself kicked back against his dirt cover from the recoil of his weapon.

He didn't remember what happened in the time between the sun exploding and him leaving the earth, but some part of him was secretly glad for it.

* * *

"_Explosion im Süden_!"

It was dark…

"_Gruppe zwei überprüft_! _Konzentrieren Sie sich auf den Osten_!"

His ears were ringing.

"_Minenwerfer, ändern ihre Position_!"

_God, my skin is on fire_…

Gunfire was erupting from everywhere, but it sounded muffled and annoying beneath the terrible ringing that just wouldn't stop. Feeling seemed to return from his head down, and the first thing he noticed was the terrible heat from all sides. Even the dirt his face was planted against seemed to be smoldering, and he could feel burning wool biting at his already inflamed skin. He smelled oily fire, smoked wood and metal. His eyes slid open and he found himself sprawled out on his side, arms and leg askew with a death grip on his rifle and the other hand empty. He clenched his now barren left hand and used it to claw himself onto his knees, aching everywhere from having landed on the compacted forest earth. It burned to take a breath and his throat was raw from the heat; he struggled to find a medium with his lungs as he looked over his shoulder and found a massive section of wood cleared of everything but falling embers and thick black smoke. He felt himself going slack at the thought that just one shot at the dragon-man had obliterated so much and blown him…

Without another thought, Alfred slammed his hand down onto a charring section of his uniform to put it out before he leapt to his feet. Adrenaline surged as he fought to ignore his body's protests at movement, and immediately he rushed to the nearest cover he could find, which, to his absolute astonishment, was the shelled out side of a barely standing stone building.

The shockwave from the explosion had blown him clear of his cover point and right through the now nonexistent line the Germans adamantly held in the southern quadrant of the village. Alfred knew if he had been human he'd have been killed; as it was, he was hurt, frazzled, but alive…and extremely late.

Alfred could see that he'd ended up more west than the original point he'd meant to enter. In ducking around the building to get a visual on the source of the gun fighting, he could see a small group of Germans rushing into the forest (he guessed to investigate the explosion), while the larger bulk was hailing the east with a barrage of bullets. Mortars were being rushed from the original line's position to the new heat of the battle, but from the sounds of it they weren't going to be necessary.

The sound of returning fire was thin, if barely there at all.

Alfred's throat seized as his gut rolled. He couldn't stop the thought that he'd failed Matthew's men from weighing heavily in his mind, but he refused to let anything paralyze him again. If there were men to be salvaged from this, then he was going to find them and get them back to the unit. No one was coming back for them this time; he was the back up and the last resort.

He pulled the bolt back on the rifle and leveled it. He had officially killed his first German of the war…there was no turning back now.

* * *

The sound of boots pounding against the dirt floor and gear shuffling on fast-moving bodies did nothing to mask the explosion that ripped through the air behind them. Matthew turned, looking over his shoulder to see the pillar of fire and black smoke burst into the sky before his heart plummeted as the sounds of gunfire cut into him like a knife.

Less than fifty of his men remained with him, and the ones who weren't doggedly looking on ahead and running to the rendezvous point had slowed to watch the fire in the sky as their commander had. While it was an impressive sight, no one felt a sense of awe; more than just Matthew had a brother in the thick of that mess.

He wanted to go back. He needed to go back. God DAMN it!

"…Sir?"

Matthew turned and discovered that he had come to a complete stop without realizing it. The edge of the forest was close enough to be seen less than fifteen meters away; several of his men who had reached it were halted just at the mouth of the shadows and all turned in his direction. He looked from them to the young soldier who had said his name and found himself face to face with the Bombardier Campbell. His expression was determined, but Matthew could see the fear behind it. He knew what he was going to say before the words left his mouth, and his heart sank further.

"P-permission…for some of us to go back and assist the others, sir?"

He wanted to say yes more than anything…but he didn't want to write any more letters of condolence to the families.

He opened his mouth to deliver the hardest of words when a gruff voice shouted an interruption.

"Permission granted!"

Less than a second of communal shock overtook the Canadians before a chorus of bolts being drawn and locked sounded. Shouts for the unidentified man to raise his hands went up and a uniformed wall formed around Matthew. For his part, Matthew stepped around the soldier closest to him and shot narrowed violet eyes at the individual approaching. The unconcerned man seemed to be unfazed by all the guns pointed in his direction, and Matthew partially understood why.

He had a dominion insignia on his uniform.

The unknown man's uniform was of a dark khaki color and dusted with travel, his high boots were worn and he had a distinctive slouch hat that pegged his nationality. Matthew hadn't met many Australians since he'd been in Europe, but the hat was as unmistakable as the accent.

What was a lone Aussie doing out here?

The Australian's honey-colored eyes locked on Matthew before he finally stopped moving a few yards away. "Since all these blokes are blockin' me from you, I assume you're Matthew Williams?" He began, indicating the growing circle of soldiers positioning themselves between Matthew and the stranger.

Matthew's eyes narrowed further. "Who are you to be looking for me?"

The man scoffed and tossed his head to the side in an indication of displeasure, "Believe you me, mate, this is a chore, not a pleasantry," he said and his expression darkened. "I was sent by a mutually known Pommy bastard ta' find ya."

The soldiers around Matthew kept their focus trained on the man, but a few slid questioning glances at one another. Matthew, on the other hand, only had eyes for the Australian…and there was no questioning on his face.

Seeing his point made, the Australian put his arms down and took a comfortable stance right in front of Matthew's guards. Oddly enough, Matthew found himself pushing through his men to get to the Australian despite the protests of his soldiers.

"Ready for orders?" The man asked.

"I'm ready to consider them."

* * *

The whistle was all the warning he got before he was forced to hit the deck as the building rocked and chunks of slate and wood rained down on where he'd once been. Gunfire continued to pepper the wall that stood between him and the Germans, who were now seemed solely focused on him. While this had kind of been the plan in the first place, he couldn't tell if it was in vain or not since he had no way of knowing if any of the Canadians were still alive. As for his distraction…

Needless to say, the Germans were now thoroughly distracted.

Hoping no more mortar shells were ready to fly, Alfred checked his ammo and found himself very distressed. The Mill's Bomb Matthew had given him was lost after the explosion in the forest, and he had already used the two he had had on him. He was down to his last rounds of rifle ammo, which left only his side arm and one extra magazine. The last time he looked there were still way more Germans than he had bullets, and he was pretty sure they wouldn't kindly agree to throwing down their arms and settling this one-on-one like men.

Alfred jumped when a bullet cut through a thin section of wall behind him, whizzed over his shoulder and embedded itself into the decrepit staircase in front of him. The shelled-out home was archaic by western standards, but right now it was the only sanctuary between him and the firing squad. Alfred felt himself shaking both from adrenaline and fear as he let out a string of curses when another bullet forced him to duck and literally kiss the dirt, making him really start to miss that damn helmet of Arthur's.

He decided that if he was missing that damn thing, the situation was pretty much going to hell in a hand basket.

Covering the back of his neck with one arm, gripping the rifle as tightly as he could with the other, he remained pressed against the floor as the gunfire tapered off. He desperately didn't want to make a sound, but at this point he was pretty sure they could hear his heartbeat back in Paris.

Someone, a voice he was starting to recognize for its bassy and commanding tone, was yelling in German and suddenly footsteps were approaching. Oh God, they were checking the building for survivors – he didn't need to know German to get the gist of that.

Quickly, Alfred pushed himself up to his feet and scrambled away from the nearly destroyed wall. The Germans were advancing, and Alfred kept low as he raced behind the staircase and pressed himself as far back into the shadows as possible. He crouched and brought his rifle back up to his shoulder, knowing he only had a few shots at best, but hoped he had enough cover not to have to use it. If someone approached from the front it would be difficult to see through the slanted steps that obscured the view through the stairs; if they approached from behind, he would hopefully see and have the chance to react to them first. The darkness was thick since no light penetrated the lower portion of the building due to the piles of debris above, and Alfred prayed it would be enough to give him the advantage he needed to make it through this.

There was a shifting sound of boots against the dirt covered floor and utility buckles clinking against efficiently moving forms; it was nerve-wracking for the American. He thought there might be two or three Germans entering the building, and from the sounds of it, they were coming from the front entrance where the shooting had begun.

There was another sound, a dull thud from somewhere upstairs as a small trail of dust rained down on him. Oh God, were they above him now, too?

His thoughts were wrenched back to the first floor when the muzzle of a rifle appeared from behind the ruined staircase. It was beyond reach of him and pointed in another direction, but it still caused sweat to bead down his face when a man turned into view. He was making sweeping motions around the area as another sound had Alfred turning his head behind him.

Someone was rounding the corner, and Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat when he realized shooting one of his pursuers would only alert the other.

He was pinched.

"_Haben Sie etwas gefunden_?"

Alfred nearly jumped when the familiar bassy shout came from somewhere outside of his invaded sanctuary. He gripped the rifle tighter and pressed it harder against his shoulder.

"_Nein, Kommander, ich habe Patronenhülsen und etwas Blut gefunden, aber keine Leichen_," returned the man now standing where he had once taken cover during the firefight. "_Hans_! _Was sehen Sie_?"

"_Nichts_ – "

The sound of the German so close behind him made him start and smack the back of his head against the wall. The moment he registered pain he froze and locked wide blue eyes on the now frozen soldier looking in his direction.

Alfred could feel his heart in his throat as his worst fear was realized. The German's face hardened and his eyes narrowed; the man's rifle moved up into a firing position as he slowly advanced towards the back of the stairwell, looking for whatever had made the sound.

"_Hans_?"

The shout from the man by the front wall went unfinished and unanswered as gurgling sounds gushed from the back of the house before a thump echoed in the building. Alfred didn't move as both the soldier who'd been advancing on him and the one at the front of the stairwell raced to the source of the new sound – apparently to the third man at the back of the house.

Alfred remained frozen in place a moment longer before daring to take rise an inch.

He never made it beyond that before a hand latched onto his mouth. His left arm was yanked securely behind his back, and his body pulled off-balance against another. Adrenaline and fear exploded in his veins and his immediate instinct was to fight, but the arms held him tighter and someone whispered hurriedly in his ear.

"If you value us both, then belt the fuck up."

And just like that, he was frozen again.

Angry German yelling exploded from the back of the building before the sounds of more shouting from outside heralded a stampede of men getting closer. Without the hands being taken from the American's mouth or arm, Alfred was yanked out from behind the staircase and rushed in a direction of the structure he hadn't explored before. He was kept bent low enough to where he couldn't really see where he was going, but the man leading him had little trouble navigating to a side room he quickly shoved the other into, and discretely shut the jagged door. By the time Alfred stood and tried to turn around to see his would-be savior, he was suddenly grabbed again and made to double-time it down what looked like a gutted storage hall. He was pushed through it and straight out the back where a pair of heavy double doors were unhinged and leaning in on each other.

The blond was given little time to maneuver through them before a swift kick to the rear sent him falling forward, forcing him into a roll and then to retrieve the rifle that slipped out of his hand.

Fortunately, the maneuver gave him time to turn around and see the man emerging from the passageway. He knew who it was the moment he'd heard that venomous command in his ear, but he hadn't believed it until he saw the Englishman stepping into the sunlight with a stern look aimed directly at him.

Alfred barely noticed the splashes of blood on his hands and uniform; he was too busy marveling over the sight of the Brit marching towards him.

"Arthur, you're –"

The rest of his words were cut off when an iron hand found itself around his throat, hauling him to his feet and slamming his body back against a wooden storage shed that shook on impact. If Alfred weren't being deprived of oxygen at that moment, he would have been astound at the show of strength he hadn't seen out of Arthur in years.

"Let me make one thing clear to you, Alfred," Arthur began, his voice low, nearly a growl, as fuming green eyes bore into startled blue. "Were it not for my intense desire to see this mission through to the end, I would have only come after your arse for one purpose and one purpose only…and that would be to bury you six feet under, as that would be the one place on earth where you would cease to be a plague upon my world."

Alfred had a death grip on the Arthur's wrist, and was staring at the Englishman in disbelief. While he figured Arthur might have been pissed about having been left behind, he hadn't figured he'd be pissed enough to try killing him – especially after just having saved his life!

As black spots began to dot the American's vision, Arthur's head snapped to the side and he suddenly let go, letting Alfred fall to his knees in a heap. The younger male held his neck, coughing and fighting for breath as he felt another hand on the back of his uniform drag him to his feet.

"You –! G-give me a second!" Alfred managed between coughs, stumbling and seriously disliking being dragged around like a rag doll.

Arthur didn't appear to be listening as he continued to haul the American along, transitioning from a fast march to a jog then to the beginnings of a sprint. Though Alfred's neck was killing him, he managed to coordinate himself and keep up with the Brit just before a holler issued behind them.

It seemed the Germans had cleared the building and found their escape route. Alfred turned to look just in time to see a man aim his rifle before an explosion engulfed him.

It didn't take the sharp tug from Arthur to get Alfred's attention back on the road ahead of him, and he certainly didn't need the extra motivation to speed it up. Alfred was nearly overtaking Arthur at one point, when the Germans seemed to recover from whatever booby trap Arthur had rigged in the storage tunnel and the bullets started flying after them. Arthur grabbed Alfred's arm and jerked him down an alley between two buildings, racing down the straightaway and dodging piles of debris.

Furious German screams carried loudly over the desolate town and made Alfred's heart jump into his throat; Arthur didn't look much better, but his expression was set and determined to find a way out of this glorious mess they'd found themselves in.

Arthur came to an abrupt halt at the alley's end, putting an arm out to halt Alfred, who nearly ran into him and would have dumped them both into the street. Both of them were trying to catch their breaths, flushed and sweating, as Alfred leaned back against the wall clutching his rifle and Arthur peered around the mouth of the opening. Silence stretched between them before Arthur pulled back and unslung his rifle from his back. He took a deep breath before looking over to Alfred; once again blue eyes met green, but this time there was a lot less anger.

They didn't have time for that.

"Sadly, we're still sorely out numbered. It seems my bombs were either duds or disarmed...and given the type of Germans these are, I'm inclined to say the latter is more likely. We need to hold out until backup arrives."

Alfred winced at that and felt his heart sink. "There isn't any. Matthew and his unit went – "

"If I say there will be back up, then there will be back up. Now pay attention," Arthur snapped, and indicated with his rifle towards the church in the center of the town square. "The top of that spire is the highest point in this area. We need to get in there, get to the top, and hold it. We can take up sniping positions from the tower and lessen their numbers as much as possible before the other team arrives – understand?"

Alfred's first instinct was to bite back with his own choice words, but he quickly swallowed them and returned a begrudged nod. He didn't know what help Arthur thought was coming, but Alfred knew for a fact Matthew and his unit were long gone. Then again, maybe Arthur had come here with a unit of his own; after all, the man had appeared out of nowhere like the Ghost of Christmas Past, so maybe he'd brought an army of Dickens carolers with him. He wisely held his tongue on the subject as Arthur turned from him and looked back at the Germans coming up their southern flank. The bullets had stopped for the moment, so he guessed the soldiers were now spreading out to actively look for them, and Alfred readied himself for what was sure to be a mad dash for the church.

The church looked like the most structurally sound building in the town. The foundation was long and rectangular in shape with a giant tower rising up from where he assumed the altar would be. Portions of the roof were blown out and sections of the building's skeleton showed through areas of eroded stone like twisted bones. Despite the obvious thrashing it had taken, the church's four standing walls would still provide the best shelter around.

As expected, all he received was a rough clap on the shoulder before a vehemently whispered, "GO!"

Alfred didn't look anywhere else but the church. He saw the entrance to the structure, a large wooden door that was slightly ajar, and focused on nothing else. He was in a flat-out sprint and more than halfway there before the first bullet zipped through the air behind him. He kept running and didn't slow down as he approached the door and barreled through it. He didn't feel pain from the impact with his shoulder until he was well inside the antechamber and skidding to a stop, spinning on heel as Arthur raced in after him and kicked the barrier shut. No words were exchanged as the pair grabbed turned over pews, fallen beams, and other substantial debris and began blockading the door. Gunfire only briefly ceased before something heavy slammed into the now sealed barricade and both of the men jumped back. Thankfully, the makeshift wall held, but once the heavier artillery was brought out they knew their luck wouldn't last.

Looking to the Englishman now, Alfred followed the man's line of sight towards the stone entryway adjacent to them that hopefully lead to the spire of the church. Again, no words were exchanged as Arthur took point and made a path over the mounds of debris towards their destination. Shells had taken out sections of the ceiling and chunks of stone had destroyed large sections of the assembly below. Pews jutted up like splinted traps from beneath the rubble and shards of stained glass littered the area like forgotten gem shavings. Alfred tried not to focus on the destruction around him and kept his vision focused on Arthur.

He found it easier to keep moving when he paid attention only to Arthur and not the nightmare surrounding him…well, at least while he could still see.

The steps leading up the church spire were narrow, short, and steep. Parts of the spire had been blasted away in the initial attack on the village and allowed some natural light in, but for the most part it was absolute blackness as the two raced up the stairs. Alfred found himself stumbling at points and clumsily losing pace, while Arthur paused only to grab his companion's hand or harness when it seemed he might fall. The spiral felt eternal to the American, who could claim no experience with this kind of architecture in his homeland other than perhaps in the oldest of lighthouses, and the sudden tremors caused by the bombs exploding below didn't help.

However, when the explosions ceased, Alfred found himself more concerned than ever.

"Mind the gap."

The blond snapped back to the present and suddenly found the floor gone beneath him. His arms pinwheeled as he began to fall forward, and immediately he clung onto the first thing he could grab – in this case, an irate Englishman. Arthur caught the American under his arms and cursed, stumbling back from the weight and hitting a wall before said wall gave way and the pair spilled out into streaming sunlight. Arthur hit the deck with an '_oomph_' as Alfred felt blinded by the sudden transition from night to day.

"Get off of me, you oaf!"

"Oh, sorry," Alfred quickly muttered and pushed off the Brit, standing and pulling the smaller man up.

Arthur knocked the American's hands away once he was standing and unslung his rifle before surveying the area. It seemed they had made it to the top, and the wall they had fallen out of was actually a small door that led to the outcropping atop the spire. The ledge wasn't very large and only wide enough for maybe four men to stand abreast. It had a great view of the town, or would be if half of it and the majority of the forest weren't destroyed or on fire, but neither soldier was paying much attention to the scenery.

Arthur was on his knees at the edge of the platform and lowering himself to his stomach, his rifle up with the barrel resting between a gap in the slabs of stone that made up a kind of guardrail. Alfred took the hint and went down on one knee next to him, looking between Arthur, who was silently lining up a shot with something below, and the door they had just come out of. The American bet a good portion of the Germans were already inside, and if that was the case then he needed to be guarding their backs.

The crack of Arthur's rifle made him start, but he quickly regained himself as Arthur chambered another round and fired again. There were more shouts from below, but this time Alfred couldn't hear the man he had identified as the commander giving orders.

Was he inside? Was he leading another group trying to find a way in from the rear side of the church? Maybe one of Arthur's booby-traps had taken him out during the rescue?

Arthur fired off several more shots before return fire began to hit the stone around them. Alfred kept low and away from any apertures in the stone while Arthur steadfastly remained in his position. Alfred wanted to help, but between his lack of rifle rounds and the fact that Germans were likely ascending the tower as they breathed, he knew he'd be more effective guarding the door.

"How many do you think are left?" Alfred asked, needing to do something with his nerves other than wait for something to happen.

Arthur didn't respond for several moments before a bullet nearly clipped him and he was forced to roll away from his sniper's position. Frowning, he lay on his back and adjusted his helmet. "I took out two scouts on my way here and one in the building where I found you. Depending on how many my bomb killed and the four I just finished off…I'd say we're still out numbered." His eyes rolled over to Alfred, who was returning the most annoyed frown he could possibly give. "Does that answer your question?"

He didn't miss the sarcasm, but he still couldn't honestly say that he hadn't missed Arthur.

The Brit rolled back over onto his stomach again, and repositioned the rifle to return sniper fire at the Germans. Alfred returned to glaring at the door and a thought occurred to him: sunlight was now coming into the stairwell from that opening like a beacon, and whoever was after them was going to follow it and have a clear shot at their backsides. Seeing as Arthur seemed to have their fronts covered, Alfred kept low and returned to the roof opening and slammed it shut. The moment he did, he felt something smack against the wooden door with a clink.

It felt like a ball or small rock had hit it, but the shout from somewhere within the tower made his eyes widen and he instinctively leapt away from the opening. The grenade exploded somewhere inside the spire and blew out plumes of fire and debris from the holes lining the structure. The tower shuddered and Alfred felt Arthur jerk next to him; the Brit let up the fire to flatten himself out on the roof and stare in near accusation at Alfred as if the earthquake was his bloody fault. Alfred only returned the look long enough to assess that Arthur was well enough to be complaining and not hurt, then pushed himself up to his feet and rushed back to the door.

He heard the Englishman suck in a breath behind him, but Alfred ignored it as he raised his rifle and opened the door again to peer around the corner. It was a little lighter than before, thanks to the new holes in the walls, but it was still too dark and narrow to see very far down. Alfred swallowed thickly and just made it past the gap before Arthur shouted for him to stop.

The blond ignored him. Arthur could keep sniping from his perch, but if these Germans were that determined to ass-end them then Alfred refused to remain idol.

Alfred was already back in the tower, one hand keeping his rifle raised while the other remained firmly pressed against the wall. He slowly descended, muscles tight as he slid his shoulder along the stones to keep himself upright down the winding staircase. He didn't have Arthur to count on to catch him if he fell this time, so when he felt that one of the steps was now misshapen or blown away he crouched low to extend the reach of his legs until he was on firmer footing. The smell of smoke and gunpowder clogged his throat, and his vision was hazy as the vapors seemed to filter out the sunlight the closer he got to the center of the explosion. He knew he had reached that point when the wall by his hand and the wall against his shoulder ended in gaping holes; a crater stood like a chasm between him and the remaining steps leading down to the main body of the church, preventing him from going any further.

Alfred kept himself pressed along the remaining wall to escape the gunfire he heard going on outside, none of which seemed focused in his direction. He paused at that and gripped his rifle tighter.

All the fire must be concentrated on Arthur's position. No one knew he was here.

Rejuvenated by the return of his element of surprise, Alfred readied his rifle and quickly peered around the side of the wall. Through the haze surrounding the hole he could see some figures in dark green uniforms shielded behind various urban points of cover, drawing themselves out only when it seemed Arthur was either being suppressed by cover fire from the west or reloading. Alfred was at the perfect angle to take out several targets and draw fire off the spire's ledge, and he took aim.

He had started his initial distraction to help the Canadians by sniping targets from the cover of the building Arthur had rescued him from – hopefully his second attempt proved more successful…for both their sakes.

A bang sounded and suddenly the man Alfred had sighted became nothing but a spray of red. The American's eyes widened as the man next to him met a similar fate, his neck bursting open as though he'd swallowed a bomb.

Alfred hadn't even pulled the trigger yet.

Gunfire burst from everywhere like a Fourth of July celebration, and it seemed to come from every direction but above. Alfred watched in morbid fascination as surprised Germans found themselves swarmed by a hail of bullets from unseen foes, with nowhere to point and shoot. Was this the backup Arthur had been talking about?

-_Clink_-

Even over the chaos outside, the echo of the pistol hammer being drawn back made Alfred's nerves spike. He instinctively hit the deck a hair's breadth before a bullet lodged itself into the stone where his head had been. Wide blue eyes stared up and locked onto nearly identical wide blue eyes, almost as if the sight of the other had surprised both of them.

Alfred didn't know who the hell he was looking at, but he knew without a doubt _what_ he was looking at.

This man was a nation, like him.

The interlude of astonishment ended when the other man's eyes narrowed and he cocked the hammer of the pistol again. Alfred didn't need to think anymore, he just needed to act. The American dropped his rifle and sprung upwards, tackling the other nation around the middle and setting the gun off in a wayward direction; the two of them tumbled out the adjacent opening in the side of the tower.

The fall hadn't been far, and the pair landed on the solid surface of the roof and continued to struggle. Alfred grabbed for the man's hand with the gun while his adversary tried to kick him away. The rotation ceased when the olive clad nation managed to nail Alfred in the side with his knee and flip them to put the American on bottom; he grabbed the American by the throat with one hand and continued to try and press the Luger towards Alfred's skull. Alfred kept a death grip on the man's right wrist, clenching it hard enough to the point of shattering bones if the other were human, while his other hand tried to wrestle the hand strangling his neck.

He knew he was hurting the other immensely, but this man was determined to kill him and refused to let go. In an act of last resort, Alfred bent his knees and planted both of his feet on the ground, and with a sudden burst of strength he lurched his body upwards and bucked the man clear off balance. The other nation apparently hadn't expected that kind of force so deep into strangulation, and the man's surprise gave Alfred enough room to wrench both offending hands away before landing a hard left hook to the blond's jaw.

The move sent the man flying off of him and Alfred quickly rolled to his feet. His neck was sore as hell and bruised (this was the second time today someone had tried to strangle him), but he still had to get that gun! Alfred, drawing his own side arm, dashed over to where the man was getting up to his knees and delivered a snap kick straight under the man's chin. The blonde's head snapped back and he immediately fell limp onto the church roof, Alfred never pausing as he immediately grabbed for the second gun and took a staggering step back. The American kept his own pistol trained on the man with eyes never leaving his target. His heart was racing and he stared down at the unconscious soldier with a mixture of surrealism and disbelief.

He was another nation…and he wore the colors and markings of the German Empire. By God...was this the man he was supposed to kill?

Alfred felt the weight of the gun in his hand and suddenly his arm felt like lead. He had no clear-cut evidence beyond what he felt inside that this was indeed his target, but there was no doubt that this man was one of his kind. He didn't feel as old as Arthur, Francis, or even Antonio, the avatar of Spain – nations he had known since childhood and knew were leagues beyond his years. Yet at the same time, this guy's presence thrummed along his skin with that same incredible power of the great empires that ruled half the world before the German could have even been born. He was a young nation, like him; not even fully mature by the standards of their race, yet here before him was the enemy empire…

This was the guy…who killed Arthur?

Alfred looked down at the gun again and wondered if this wasn't the same gun that had put the bullet in Arthur's head at Somme. His hand tightened on the grip as he holstered his own semi-auto and rounded the body before him with just the Luger in hand. The man looked and felt the same age as he and Matthew, but this guy had already killed at least one of their kind…someone that meant something to him. That alone should be reason enough to pull the trigger…

According to his commanders, he could very well help bring about the end of this war with this killer's death. He…he started a war in France and he was the reason why he was here. He killed Arthur, lead soldiers who killed his allies and just now tried to kill him. He should die. He should die! He was here to make sure he died!

…So why the fuck couldn't he pull the Goddamn trigger!

Alfred held the Luger in a two-handed grip, the barrel of the pistol aimed at the fallen man's head, but his hands were shaking and no matter what he demanded of himself he couldn't depress the trigger. The anger and frustration raging inside of him was at near volatile levels, but still he couldn't bring himself to kill the unconscious man.

Alfred let out a scream of fury and flung the weapon as far as he could. He didn't care where it landed; it was useless to him since he couldn't use the damn thing for its intended purpose. He had no doubts that Arthur could have done it – hell, with the way things always seemed to be changing around him, Matthew might have been able to do it. Even with the mission and the entire war on the line, he couldn't take the perfect opportunity to bring peace with murder.

Arthur was right, he was thinking like a human when he needed to be thinking like a purpose driven nation.

The screaming in Alfred's head drowned out the gunfire and screams from below, but more importantly, the sound of the man recovering consciousness and rising to his feet went unnoticed as well. Alfred had his back turned as the other nation narrowed his bleary gaze at him…and unsheathed a knife from his belt.

To Be Continued…

* * *

Notes from the Author:

Okay, to begin…MY GOODNESS, THIS IS SO INCREDIBLY LATE! I'm so sorry, please forgive me for that! Life's been rather insane as of late, but I hope the intensity of this chapter and the return of Arthur was worthy of your wait. Before we get into these notes, I just want to really thank all of the people who put up with the long, long wait and still were willing to help me get this presentable for ya'll:

My Beta Reader: Lady Hedervary, who is not only the captain of my cosplay crew, but also my amazing Pirate!Spain to my Pirate!England (Arr, fight's on, wanker! XD)

My German Consultant/Language Master: MelodyofStarshine, who is one of the most patient and wonderful people I've yet to have the honor of knowing. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL YOU DO!

My Canadian Consultant/Motivater: KitakLaw, who wrote two wonderful pieces for me during my long period of intense life stresses/writer's block/semester's end crisis and really put the spark back into my urge to get this done. THANK YOU, M'DEAR! I owe you an incredible debt for all you've done!

TO THE NOTES!

1.) Every war game, historical, and zombie enthusiast is more than familiar with the modern day flamethrower. What may not be known is that the modern flamethrower was actually a German invention created in 1901, though not officially accepted as a weapon of war until the Germans started using specialized regiments to handle and use the equipment in 1911 (though the first "_Flammenwerfer_" wasn't used in WWI until 1915, the first time being against the French at Verdun, then again against the British at Hooge…and yes, sadly I had to go through Wikipedia to get this information -_-; Merf). For some non-wiki info, it was reported that the first time Americans were exposed to the flamethrowers was during the Battle of Seicheprey, and needless to say…that was one hell of a surprise. Before WWI, Americans hadn't seen anything like the modern flamethrower before, so you can imagine what it must have been like to be stuck in a foreign land, suddenly set upon by men (whose uniforms are just as Alfred described) wanting to kill you, and suddenly have sticks with flames shooting out of them pointed at your face. Not a pleasant thought. Anyway, several elements of the German battle tactics shown here are similar to tactics used by the Germans in that battle. Seicheprey was a test run for the Germans in that they sent a mass of Stormtroopers at the American Yankee Divisions (yep, that's what the New England divisions proudly named themselves and still do – the divisions today and wear a "YD" on their division patches; GO YANKEES!) to see what they could do. At the time, Seicheprey was considered a "quiet" area of the front and the first American divisions on the ground had been placed there more so for training and acclamation purposes than anything else – however, the Germans changed all of that with a surprise artillery bombardment on April 20th, 1918. The Americans (who had no prior experience with this kind of warfare), held out for 36 hours as the Germans cut off routes in and out of the village and essentially isolated them before beginning raids on whoever survived the assault. Given the supplies available in a "quiet" region was less than adequate and most soldiers ran out of ammunition well before their enemies, the Yankee Division came up with some pretty clever tactics to hold the village by turning the tables on the Germans and surprising them by resorting to heavy hand-to-hand and close quarters combat. It was pretty shocking to be sweeping a shelled out town for dead bodies and suddenly, out of nowhere, find a knuckle sandwich in your face or a makeshift club upside your head. All in all, through heavy artillery fire, a flamethrower division, countless raids, and some down and dirty fights for survival, the Americans kept hold of the village but took heavy losses. This fight really got the Americans riled up for the Aisne-Marne Campaign… ;) But more on that later.

2.) The new fellow here has a name, rank, and will be introduced more in depth next chapter. For now, however, here's another nation involved in this war: Australia. At this point in history, Australia is considered a dominion of the British Empire, just like Canada, but before ya'll jump to conclusions…this character is an OC and NOT the Australian avatar, himself. He is, however, representing Australia here and is wearing the WWI Australian uniform, including the slouch hat (lots of countries have them, but Australia's is unique in that it has a particular design where one side of the wide brimmed hat is pinned, and it's standard issue headwear for military members even today). He's also using some lingo that most people outside of Australia may not be familiar with (hell, I wasn't even familiar with it till I researched it), but right now the main one would be "Pommy Bastard" …XD which (from what I read) is a not very nice way to say "British prick" in Australian. Yeah…Arthur's got tons of international nicknames, doesn't he?

3.) WWI booby-traps. While it isn't explained here (since we're pretty much in Alfred vision for it), Arthur is pretty much demonstrating a little note I had placed in chapter 7 (a.k.a. Arthur Boot Camp). As booby-traps/alarm systems, German soldiers used to unscrew the caps of stick grenades and leave the exposed wire and ceramic ball hanging and waiting to be snagged and activated. The explosions often caused chain reactions from other bombs placed strategically in the area, and Arthur had used this and another tactic he explained to Alfred in boot camp as being "necessary" when supplies were running short – use the enemy's weapons against him. Arthur seems to be a master at stealth, killing people when they least expect it, and stealing their stuff. Quite the little pirate, isn't he?

4.) "Mind the Gap". I was very cheeky in inserting this, but if you've never been to the Underground tube system (England's subway) in London, then know that when you go there…ALWAYS mind the gap between the platform and the cars. If you don't listen to the annoying lady on the loudspeakers or the 50 billion bright red and white signs every few feet…you will be sorry… :) Like Alfred!

5.) Alright, another fun tid-bit I brought back with me from England: the church. Now, I've never been to France and sadly all the descriptions I could find of WWI French churches either involved two vague sentences in a paragraph or information on restoration projects. Therefore, to make this church scene, I drew on images of WWI French churches for the exterior and based the interior (including the spire climb) off of a 13th century English church I got to visit in the U.K. I focus a lot on that tower because, my God, NOTHING says claustrophobia incarnate like a ye ol' ancient European church spire. _ Going up them takes forever, there are no handrails to assist you (we had a long piece of rope hooked to the wall and each other; poor Alfred just has Arthur), and the higher up you go the darker is gets. Sadly enough, I was thinking of what an excellent sniper's perch the top of said spire would be when I got there and saw the view (and yeah, I pulled an Alfred upon getting there in that I didn't "mind the gap" and fell into my classmates ahead of me and caused a cluster-fluck at the tiny little door we had to fit through at the top), and apparently Arthur thought so too. To my French and architecturally savvy readers, I beg your forgiveness for using inspiration from an English church and spire to describe this scene in…well, France!

6.) THE CALVERY HAS ARRIVED! …More details on that next chapter.

7.) And for more caps lock use, TA-DA! My, my LOOK who it is! …A cookie if you win the "guess that nation" game. ;)

German Translations:

1.) "_Explosion in den Süden_!" – "Explosion in the South!"

2.) "Gruppe zwei ist die Überprüfung! Konzentrieren Sie sich auf den Osten!" – "Team two is checking! Focus on the East!"

3.) "_Minenwerfer, ändern ihre Position_!" – "Mortars, change your position!"

4.) "_Haben Sie etwas gefunden_?" – "Have you found anything?"

5.) "_Nein, Kommander, ich habe Patronenhülsen und etwas Blut, aber keine Leichen_," […] "_Hans_! _Was sehen Sie_?" – "No, commander, I have some bullet casings and some blood, but no bodies," […] "Hans! What do you see?" ("Hans" is the other soldier's name…cliché, I know, but I happen to really like that name)

6.) "Nichts – " – "Nothing – "

Finally, to end this chapter, I thank my incredible readers, subscribers, reviewers, and…oh, gosh darn it, all ya'll! :) You have no idea how much it makes my day to get my little alerts in my e-mail box, and even more amazing was how many of you went further and sought me out on deviantart! XD I was doubling over when I got to chat with some of you over the net, and even more incredibly were the few of you I got to meet in person at the last Hetalia Meet-Up at Disney! I was so honored and thrilled – every one of you made my day! ^_^ To every one of you reading this, you ALL (local, national, or international) light up my world! Thank you all so much again for your patience and taking the time to read my stories, you guys really do keep me encouraged to keep updating. Anyone out there who writes or has written can most likely agree with me that it takes a lot of courage to share your imagination with the world…and knowing someone out there reads it and connects with it is just the coolest feeling ever. So thanks again for that awesome feeling, and I'll see you next chapter!

Sincerely and with Great Humility,

_General Kitty Girl_


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

****WARNING****: Strong Language, Very Graphic Scenes, Bloodshed and Extreme Violence [_This is a special warning for this chapter as it is very dark and graphic. There is no sugarcoating of the battle scenes depicted here or character injury/death_…but you all should expect this of me by now. ;) Another warning: the beginning of this chapter will go through the points of view of Arthur, Matthew, and Alfred during a specified period of time important to this chapter. Each point of view is separated with a line-break, so please be aware of the clock resetting at the beginning of each line-break. Thank you.]

Chapter Seventeen Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/ Matthew Williams

-Germany/ Ludwig

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XVII

"_The Price of Time_"

The moment Alfred had vanished from his sight Arthur knew he had lost him. The plummeting feeling in his chest nearly overwhelmed him before the near miss by a bullet to his head snapped him back to reality. The Germans were relentless and continued firing upon him, but such had been the point up until now. With the Germans focused on him, the backup team he hoped would get there in time had a better chance setting up strategic positions from which to take the enemy.

But now he couldn't afford to be pinned down – he had to go find Alfred!

The Englishman released a string of curses as he waited for a break in between enemy rounds, repositioned his rifle, and returned fire with the expectations that the soldiers would take cover and give him enough time to get up and move back into the tower. Arthur found no such luck; it seemed the Germans had figured out it was just one shooter up on the platform, and did all they could to suppress him while setting up the mortars.

Frustration assailed him. There was a command to fire from below and all Arthur could do was flatten himself against the deck and wait.

Then all hell broke loose.

No mortar round came as the shouts from below went from one voice delivering orders to many screaming out clear signs of alarm in German. Gunfire was exploding from everywhere, but no bullets were coming in his direction. A swell of familiarity trilled inside of him and he knew an Allied unit had come. He would never admit out loud the relief he felt at that moment, but he didn't have time to celebrate as he quickly pushed himself to his feet and turned his attention back towards the tower. He had to find Alfred!

That's when he heard the scream and faltered. He missed a step just as his heart missed a beat, and had to catch himself on the side of the wall…Alfred…that had been Alfred…

It wasn't his usual cold logic that got him moving again, but the sudden shouts of '_Incoming' _from below just before he was slammed against the stone.

Arthur's head took the brunt of the blow when he smashed it against the wall, and from there pitched harshly to the surface of the platform when a second explosion rocked the spire. The sound was horrific as Arthur struggled to recover his senses. He could hear the groans of the foundation and the crumbling of granite before a tremor rocked the ground beneath him. Within seconds the very world seemed to give way as the spire lost its ability to stand and began to collapse. The Brit instinctively latched on to the first thing he could, in this case a section of the rock guardrail lining the platform, and felt his stomach rise into his throat when the upper portion of the spire separated. The section twisted away from its decimated lower half and began to freefall towards the earth.

Watching Gaia rushing up from beneath a cloud of ash and dust was as terrifying as standing before an oncoming train.

Arthur gripped the stone rail as hard as he could and used the lack of gravity to haul himself up and over it. His feet were planted on the surface for only a fraction of a second before pushing off of the doomed ledge and into open space. Arthur had no idea where he was jumping, and now falling to, but any place was better than the soon to be rock-pile tomb in this goddamn French village.

The spire had been located near the rear of building, and completely took out the entire side of the church it had stood over, with parts of it spilling out into the street. Arthur failed to make it far enough to avoid clearing the catastrophe as he came crashing down through a torn section of the roof, hitting several beams before continuing his descent straight to the church floor. His entire right side that initially hit the roof was numb from pain, and he found it impossible to breathe with all the smoke and dust from the collapse nearly suffocating him. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp jolt of hurt shot through his body and forced him back down.

Not a moment too soon.

More stone, dislodged from the now gone spire, fell through the now nonexistent roof straight for him. His eyes widened and he quickly curled his body before a near deafening crash and bang sounded above him. Even with his eyes screwed tightly shut he could tell the light was suddenly gone. Had the rest of this section of the church collapsed? Was he buried alive?

Arthur's eyes slowly slid open, and the sight above him took a moment to process.

The wall bearing the cross behind the risen dais had fallen inward at the moment the rocks from above had fallen on him. Catching on the ancient altar he had fallen before, it rested there, shielding him from the rocks. What both awed and frightened him the most was the giant wooden crucifix, once affixed to the wall, now hanging prone over his prone form like the sacrificial guardian it represented.

Not daring to move as his body worked through the pain and numbness, Arthur wasn't sure if he should be grateful…or afraid of what this saving grace would cost.

* * *

The motivation to get back to the village was far greater than it had been running from it. When the details of the plan had been worked out, there were no problems in forcing a double timed march back to the heart of the fighting. As the sounds of gunfire got louder, the pace quickened. The Australian Lance Corporal, a man now identified as Lachlan Walker, stuck close to Matthew and had no trouble keeping up with the hasty nation.

In the short time Matthew had gotten to know Walker, he had decided the man had enough personal interest in seeing Arthur safe that he could at least be trusted to do what was best in the interests of the Englishman's well being. Therefore, Matthew would focus on keeping his own men safe and finding Alfred.

Matthew had split his unit into three groups and spread them out along the perimeter of the village. Each team knew exactly what their mission was and what the other teams were responsible for. Once Matthew and his team gave the signal, the operation would begin.

Matthew's group consisted of himself, Walker, and a little less than sixteen Canadians. While the other two teams set up position on the north and east sides of the forest surrounding the town, Matthew took his team into the city from the west side and immediately saw the church Walker had told him about, the one the Australian said Arthur had made their back up rendezvous point.

Apparently, Arthur and the Australian had lost track of the Canadian unit a day before the ambush, but had managed to find some German scouts after the troopers waylaid and murdered two of Matthew's pathfinders. The English and Australian pair had trailed the Germans to the village ahead of Matthew and Alfred, and when they realized what their enemies were planning they knew they had to act. There had been no time to warn the Canadians, so Arthur had Walker use a radio stolen from one of the German scouts to contact the units in Flanders about the situation and the need for support. According to Walker, it was after the message was sent that '_shit hit the fan_' and suddenly the forest was on fire.

Matthew remembered the race through the woods in painful detail, and evidently Arthur and Walker had seen the fire from the opposite end of the forest where Walker had later met them.

The Australian bitterly informed Matthew that he had been ordered to wait for backup while Arthur ran back to the village at the first sound of gunfire. The Australian knew help from the outside would be long in coming, but when Matthew and his men showed up he decided Canadians would be just as good as anything coming out of the Flanders area…more than likely better, from his experiences. Walker had worked with Canadians before and preferred them to '_Pommy Bastards_', so he was more than happy to detail the plan to Matthew and get back to recovering all that was left behind in the village.

With the way things were looking, they were too late to save much.

From his position behind the remains of a shelled out building, Matthew heard the sniper fire coming from the top of the church tower, but was worried by the lack of multiple shooters. The Canadian focused on the Germans attacking his ally's position and quickly drew his own rifle. When he heard the chorus of his men following suit, Matthew took a deep breath and centered himself.

He had to move first to initiate the operation, which meant he had to take the first shot; and he did, pulling the trigger and blasting a hole through the back of a German soldier's neck.

From behind and all around him, his men unleashed their rounds and found homes either in their enemies or in places that forced the Germans to take cover. Matthew wasted no time in chambering another round and firing again, this time blowing the helmet right off a man and part of his skull with it. When the majority of his group's rounds had run out, the surviving Germans rose from cover and returned fire.

When Matthew commanded his men to get down and reload, the group he had ordered to the other side of the village soon emerged from their positions and began where the west group had left off.

With his back pressed against a decrepit stone wall Matthew couldn't see anything, but the screams were more than enough to tell him their enemies had not been expecting a full Canadian ambush.

As the gunfire began to taper off from the other group, Matthew looked down the lines of men on either side of him. "When I give the signal, we're going to give them another round. We need to hold just long enough to make sure the east team has taken cover, then – "

Matthew was cut off and jarred into silence when a scream from the direction of the church sent chills through him. The violet-eyed avatar of the True North felt his airway constrict and his grip on his rifle tighten. That…had been Alfred.

"Blimey, what the hell are you waiting for? We need to fucking go!"

Walker's shout snapped Matthew out of his shock, and without warning he leapt to his feet. "FIRE!"

A storm burst into being around him and crashed into the few remaining soldiers left behind the debris before the church. Matthew knew there weren't enough bodies on the ground to account for the large unit that had been here during their first encounter, and knew his third unit coming from the south end was going to begin sweeping the village. Matthew was about to order his own group to begin the assist when the first whistle sounded.

All he could do was watch as a fiery streak cut through the air heading for the spire.

The Australian behind him shouted "_INCOMING_!" but Matthew knew it was too late for anyone in that tower.

The Canadian turned in the direction the missile had come from just as a second one was launched from what looked like the roof of a building the south team was now racing towards. "For God's sake, secure those mortars!" Matthew screamed, and was forced to watch in horror as the spire the sniper fire had been coming from crumbled to dust before his eyes.

Several of his men closest to the area were forced to retreat, running away from the falling debris and massive cloud of smoke that hazed the air. Visibility was near nothing and no one could hear anything over the noise from the collapse, but Matthew ran towards the destruction regardless.

Arthur and his brother were somewhere in that church. He had already left Alfred to his fate once; he wasn't about to let it happen again.

* * *

It was faint, but the sound of something being kicked and skidding across the roof behind him jerked him from his thoughts. Alfred had barely turned around before he was almost face to face with a very determined German.

The silver glint of the knife in the man's hand sent alarm bells off in the American's head, a second before the German lunged.

Alfred back peddled but the German reached out and grabbed the American's shoulder with one hand to steady his target as he drove the knife towards Alfred's stomach. Alfred's eyes were wide and he immediately leaned as far back as the German's hand would let him –

Or at least until fate and gravity decided it wasn't his time to be gutted.

An explosion rocked the church behind his attacker and suddenly the German was falling into him the American fell back. The tip of the knife slid home centimeters into Alfred's stomach before the roof beneath them gave way, causing the German to loose control of the weapon. With nothing to keep it stable, the blade slid harmlessly out of Alfred and vanished into the church while both nations scrambled to grab onto the ceiling beams, still holding below the now gone roofing.

Alfred dropped and clung to a heavy strut for all he was worth, his arms strung out over the top of the wooden support as his body hung over empty space. His abdomen was killing him in this position and he felt the stretched skin tearing, but he knew it wasn't anything fatal. He turned his head to see his opponent in a similar position, but already pulling himself up onto the beam with one leg over the top.

If the German got there first, Alfred knew the man would finish what his knife had started.

The American clenched his teeth and strained as he hauled his body up along the side of the strut. He tried to swing his lower half up to catch his boot along the edge for leverage and managed to get most of his body up before a second explosion rocked the church. Alfred was nearly pitched completely over the side, leaving him hanging half-on, half-off the support while his adversary went from standing to hitting the beam flat on his belly.

Before either of them could recover, the most horrible sound Alfred could imagine engulfed him. He took his eyes from the German long enough to see the area beneath the tower collapsing, bringing the walls and columns with it as a chain reaction had ceiling crosspieces splintering like toothpicks and falling into the darkness.

Arthur!

The roof was folding and both the German and he were clinging to a section of it for dear life; now they had to move. The two met gazes for barely a second before they were righting themselves and both racing along the beam away from the quickly disintegrating region.

The beam wasn't very wide, but with motivation like falling into the abyss and being buried alive, neither nation had problems hauling ass along the wooden catwalk. Alfred's feet kept moving him towards safety, but inside he was demanding his body turn around and go back to find Arthur. He should have never left him; he had to go back!

His heart winning out over his head, Alfred skidded to a stop and prepared to reroute his direction before a loud crack split the air and his world began to tilt. He heard a sharp expletive in German from what was now below him, and before he knew it he was falling as the strut had given way. Weightless for less than a heartbeat, pain exploded in Alfred's abdomen when something slammed into his gut, making him gasp as he automatically latched onto the offender. His feet swung out below him, his grip found purchase between the black iron grooves of a circular chandelier.

The gothic artifact was shaped like a wagon wheel with ornate arches along the circular rim. Large curved branches for the candelabra stretched out from the main body like arms and it was from these Alfred saw the German likewise hanging. The chandelier spun and swung, making Alfred's stomach churn, and the sound of the chain and braces it hung from creaking made Alfred think it would fall any second. Looking down, Alfred estimated the drop was at least fifty or sixty feet, which meant if the fall didn't kill him it was going to hurt like hell. Since dying would be damn inconvenient in his search for Arthur, he had to do something fast.

The movement of the chandelier was making climbing difficult, but Alfred used his inhuman strength to pull himself up the edge of the rim, managing to get his leg over and onto one of the wheel spokes. He held onto the ornate ironwork with both hands as he steadied himself, the German watching him from below and now trying to copy his motions before Alfred turned from him and made a lunge for the chain at the center of the swinging relic. It paid off as he grabbed hold and got himself into position to ascend it, but a shudder down the links made him realize that this thing wasn't going to hold for long.

He had to do this quickly.

Reaching hand over hand, Alfred pulled himself up the thick black chain. With the chandelier swinging like an unguided pendulum, the American found it difficult to keep a steady pace; his speed was slower than the German now balancing between two spokes below him, and he only noticed it when the chain gave another jerk as the other blond grabbed it.

Once again their eyes met, and this time Alfred knew that if he didn't do something about the other nation, he was going to die with him.

The weight at Alfred's side was his answer as he drew his sidearm and aimed down at the German. The man froze as Alfred clung to the chain with one hand and his legs, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out after the German slipped on the bar he'd been standing on, and Alfred's bullet hit one of the weaker links of the chain. He watched in wide-eyed shock as the fractured link just above the apparatus holding the chandelier shattered. The corresponding jerk up the chain caused Alfred to lose his grip on the gun as he grabbed hold of his unstable lifeline with both hands. The German was barely hanging onto the ledge he had fallen from, and before Alfred could remember how to breathe, the apparatus and his sidearm fell into the clouded darkness below.

The German never screamed, but Alfred screwed his eyes shut and turned away when he heard the sickening crash of metal striking the rubble below.

He didn't have much time to think about anything beyond the fact that he was nauseous before the strut above him groaned and he remembered what he was suppose to be climbing. Alfred quickly returned to scaling the chain, finding that he was having an easier time without the swinging chandelier, and after a while he finally made it to the top. He threw his arm and leg over the support beam and flopped down onto his back in relief. He was sweating, shaking, and tired…but alive.

Alive…

Arthur!

Alfred's eyes flew open and immediately the young man scrambled to his feet, rushing down the beam towards the collapsed tower. When his strut ended, Alfred looked to another left of his position and made a leap for it. He made the landing and was off again in the direction where the smoke was thickest. Feeling like he was racing the clock, Alfred reached the point where there was nothing manmade left to stand on.

He needed to get down to the ground floor and find Arthur…hopefully in better order than the German.

* * *

Visibility was zero, but it didn't stop him from plunging into the dark cloud of dust billowing out of the unhinged church entrance. With the stock of his rifle pressed hard against his right shoulder, the Canadian was on high alert for any sounds of life as he clambered in over the debris. Nothing but a handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose separated him from the filth in the atmosphere; still, he found his lungs invaded by foreign particles and convulsing to expel them but he pressed on.

He had just made it over the low rising remains of what appeared to be a mound of pews when the sound of a gunshot made him hit the deck, immediately followed by a heart-stopping crash from somewhere beyond his position.

Matthew was on his feet again in seconds and racing forward.

It didn't take long for him to pick up on the magnetism in the direction of the altar deeper in the church. Matthew recognized the pitted weight in his stomach and the feeling of every fiber in his body coming to attention for the presence calling him. His expression twisted into one of total confliction and frustration; he had disobeyed this terrible summons before in his life, and the penalty was something he could ill afford now.

The pull of God was not forcing his body to commit mutiny…it was his master's dire situation invoking his Dominion's oath of loyalty to him. Matthew was having difficulty venturing further to find his brother until he had seen to his sovereign's wellbeing, and Matthew cursed, as he would have to fight to continue his search for Alfred.

Keeping a tight hold on his rifle as he quickly scoured the rubble, Matthew moved ever closer to the center. The thick dust clouds were lifting to a degree, thanks to the new skylight overhead, but the darkness of shadows cast in the fading light were making the search hard for the Canadian.

Finally, he came across the darkened outline of twisted black curves reaching up from the floor. It was extremely out of place in the mostly wooden and stone landscape, and the cloud surrounding it was especially dense. Matthew was sure he'd found the source of the crash and rounded it in his approach.

He couldn't make out much in the smoke, but there was no mistaking the blond hair beneath the twisted mess.

The overwhelming power trying to influence him north made it hard for him to sense anything else, but Matthew didn't care as he slung his rifle behind him, grabbed the first bit of metal he could find and began to heave.

The section of warped iron was thick, but Matthew held on and continued to pull. He strained every muscle he had, pushing up with his legs and arms as he struggled to lift the metal monstrosity that refused to budge. Sweat poured down his face and mixed with the dust settling there, forming mud streaks and blinding him as rivulets poured into his eyes. Blood was rushing through him so fast he was becoming dizzy, but on shaky legs he managed to lift what had once been a chandelier to about knee height.

The blond figure underneath didn't move, and Matthew's locked jaw prevented him from calling out to see if the man he was trying to save was even still alive.

Suddenly there was a shift in movement to his right; another set of hands came into view next to his and began to lift.

"Come on, Williams, put y'back inta' it!" Walker grunted, also muffled by the strain as he gave all he had to assist Matthew.

The Canadian recognized the man's voice and whispered a mental '_thank you_' to him as his face contorted with the effort of raising the chandelier another few inches.

When the chandelier was chest high, Matthew planted his feet in and took a few quick breaths before managing to unlock his jaw. "G-go in and get, him. I'll…hold it."

The Australian didn't waste time asking if he was sure before dropping into a crouch and sliding into the space created; Matthew, all the while, struggling to keep his hold on his charge. It was a time like this he wished he had been blessed with his brother's strength, and the thought sparked a memory of when Alfred told him he had wished for Matthew's brains for all the good his muscles did him. The recollection helped him focus on breathing as best he could (under the circumstances) and keep the stress of his task at bay.

Matthew barely got his eyes opened before Walker let out a curse, suddenly cut off by the gut lurching sound of a scuffle and a pistol being drawn.

Matthew didn't want to let go of the chandelier, but training overrode emotion and he grabbed for his sidearm as two shots went off. Searing pain drilled its way through the left side of his neck as he lost his grip and fell.

* * *

Alfred hit the ground with a yelp and was showered with wooden remains that rained down from the beam that had disintegrated. He should have known that last rotten plank was a mistake to have trusted his weight to, and now he got a faceful of dirt for his stupidity. Trying to ignore the stupendous results of his hop-scotching down from the rafters above (a feat that took far longer than expected), Alfred scrambled to his feet and didn't bother dusting himself off as he cut a path towards the remainder of the tower. The site was nothing short of devastating, and the closer Alfred came and was able to see, the more his heart sank.

If Arthur really had gone down with the tower he could be anywhere in this mess. Alfred didn't know what was happening outside, but the distant gunfire was drowned out by sounds of the rocks he was tossing to the wayside.

Alfred looked through the piles with any manner of gap between the stones and began pitching them away. Though the man was tired, it took little effort to lift the biggest pieces and move on to the next. He tried to search as carefully as possible for signs of life while keeping pace, but the longer time went on the more disheartened he became. He'd reached the slight rise where the altar barely stood when a loud creak jolted his attention towards the toppled crucifix. His eyes widened as the fallen wall atop the cross began to move.

By the time he ascertained that this wasn't an act of God but more than likely an act of Arthur, he rushed to the altar and took up position before the slab.

The wall was massive, and the moment Alfred gripped and began to heave it he realized just how heavy it was. He struggled with his footing for a moment then yanked the wall upward again, this time gaining some leverage. When pulling the wall changed to pushing it up, Alfred shifted his position to the side and rested the edge of his burden on his shoulder for support. With his view of what lay beneath unblocked, he found a more than exhausted-looking Englishman sprawled out on his back and struggling to get up.

Alfred's face lit up just before the worry descended, but it too was short lived when he felt himself shrink a bit as the wall reminded him it was still there.

"Uh, n-not that I'm not glad to see you, Arthur, but…kindly," Alfred began, then grunted when he shrunk again and his arms began to shake. "Move your ass."

Arthur almost gave him a dirty look, but saved his energy for something more constructive as he held his side with one hand and agonizingly used his free arm and good leg to push himself towards the created opening.

The Englishman had barely cleared the wall's reach when Alfred gave a straggled grunt and let go of the edge. The great section fell and crushed what remained of the altar and anything that had once spared Arthur from being crushed when he landed. The Brit looked at the remains emotionlessly before a jolt of pain brought him back to his side.

Alfred quickly turned away from the wall and knelt beside Arthur, his hands hovering over the man and unsure of what to do. He could barely see anything as it was, and the fact that Arthur was turning away from him wasn't helping.

"Arthur, hey," Alfred began, finally deciding that he had no choice but to lay a hand on the man's shoulder to roll him back in his direction to assess him. "Where's it worst?" He asked, ignoring the scowl.

Arthur didn't have the chance to answer before a shout followed by two gunshots cut through the silence. Both men instantly froze and while Alfred was looking wide-eyed in the direction of the north entrance, Arthur was staring straight ahead with a look of utter disbelief.

"What the hell –"

"Matthew."

Alfred stared down at Arthur with a horrified expression before three more shots rang out, making the American jump to his feet. Realization hit him and suddenly he had a need to run towards the gunfire, but a fast hand on his leg forced him to stop as he looked down at the pain-stricken Arthur. Green eyes were having a hard time focusing through the pain, but Alfred met them as Arthur's hand holding his side drew his pistol and held it up to him.

"Y-your holster is empty."

Alfred had forgotten about the sidearm he'd lost and quickly took Arthur's before tearing off through the darkness. Arthur listened to the sounds of his footsteps vanishing before falling onto his back again and trying not to breath in too much of the smoke.

Pain or no pain, he drew his backup revolver and begged his body to hurry the hell up.

* * *

Alfred didn't think he'd ever run so fast in his life. He nearly tripped a few times over some oblong debris, but nothing stopped him from his dead sprint towards the crash site where he knew he'd find the chandelier. Sure enough, the telltale branches of the candelabras rose up like demonic horns from the floor and somewhere to the left of it was the labored breathing of someone fallen on the debris.

It didn't take him long to find the man, and to his horror it was Matthew.

The American was on his knees in an instant, and unlike with Arthur where he wasn't sure what to do first, he immediately focused on the junction between Matthew's neck and left shoulder, which was nothing but a mass of red. Alfred began tearing cloth and holding it as tight against the wound as possible, hearing Matthew respond with a straggled gasp before locking his jaw and pressing a blood soaked hand over Alfred's.

Alfred thought he was helping him hold the makeshift packing, but his brother's hissed command was anything but a request for him to stay. "I-It's Germany," He said through clenched teeth, and Alfred's eyes moved to Matthew's other hand, still gripping a smoking gun. "He's in-injured-…go."

Of course he was injured; Alfred still had no idea how the bastard had survived. But looking down at his brother, his uniform soaked with blood still pouring from his neck wound and God knew where else, Alfred couldn't bring himself to go. Even if this was the perfect time to strike back at Germany, Arthur was hurt and Matthew was critical…

He couldn't leave them.

Without a word, Alfred transferred charge of the cloth to Matthew and began wrapping his arms around his brother to lift him. The Canadian was at an utter loss for words, but when he found his voice again he sounded furious. "GO! Germany –"

"Can wait. You and Arthur can't," Alfred said firmly, cutting the other blond off, as he made sure he was careful to keep Matthew on his back when he stood with the other in his arms. "Accept it, Matt, and keep pressure on that wound," he added, careful not to jostle the other too much as he made his way back towards Arthur.

Matthew was most certainly not accepting it, and his level of uncooperativeness was almost on par with what Arthur's might have been. "D-do your job, Al-Alfred!" He ground out, obviously winded by pain and blood loss, which worried the American even more. "W-Walker went aft-after him, he can't do it…alone!"

Since speaking would only provoke retaliation from Matthew, Alfred said nothing as he watched his footing over the debris mounds. Matthew mentioned someone he didn't know going after Germany, but right now his priorities were Arthur and his brother…he'd go after Germany if time and their wellbeing allowed. He made the best time he could getting back to the remains of the altar, but Matthew had still gone quiet and been reduced to strained breathing. Between fearing for his brother and looking for his partner, the idea of Germany all but completely vanished.

Because Arthur wasn't there.

* * *

It didn't take long to find him; there was only one place to go and the blood trail led him right to entrance of the underground. The discovery of the tunnel had been made upon the initial exploration of the village, when he and Walker had first arrived and seen Germans hauling equipment from the subterranean entrance. It seemed the village had had some kind of underground system before the Germans connected their own to it, and the soldiers had used the passage to transport men and gear used in the ambush. Arthur had suspected the tunnel had been in use for much more than just the attack…he suspected that's how several spies now behind the lines had gotten there.

That's also how Ludwig had gotten there, and Arthur was determined to see he would never leave.

As he stood with his right arm raised and revolver in hand, aimed at the back of the bloodstained head, Arthur tightened his finger on the trigger. "Don't take another step."

The German froze, an Allied issue pistol he'd taken from the Australian in hand; the German's other hand wasn't visible, as it seemed to be holding his stomach in front of him. The man's breaths were strained and he staggered when he walked. There was a considerable limp when Arthur had first seen him approaching the tunnel entrance well behind the shadowed remains of what was once a clinic south of the church. Arthur saw the blood pooling beneath the man out of the corner of his eye and saw the sea of red growing by the second. However, his focus never wavered from his target…the head of the man who'd killed him.

"…You, I believe…would shoot…" The deep bass-like voice replied, his accent thick, but his grasp of English was flawless…despite the fatigue and pain laced with each breath.

Arthur wasn't in much better shape, but he could see that a great difference between himself and the German was the bullet hole leaking fresh blood constantly from his torso. "Drop the weapon and turn around."

The German didn't move, and Arthur saw no intention in the man to do so. He tensed, and Arthur took a step forward before the man's voice stopped him.

"This area is rigged to explode."

It was Arthur's turn to freeze as the sounds of gunfire and shouting in the distance behind him began to dim. It sounded like the fighting was coming to an end, but if the German really had installed a failsafe as he suggested…then all of this had been in vain.

The Englishman's eyes narrowed and he took another step. "You're lying."

For a man who looked like he was dying, the hardening of his voice was enough to tell Arthur that the insult to his character was more pressing than the blood spilling from his wounds. "I am many things, _Herr_ Kirkland, but a liar is not one of them," He growled, "Do you know why I came, Empire?" The German continued, his body still struggling to hold itself up; his breaths growing calmer and the sudden change forced Arthur to stop again – he was especially nervous that he couldn't see that other hand. "Any and every means necessary…that's why they sent me…any and every…means…"

"Any and every means to what?" Arthur demanded, losing patience and about to forgo his original plan to extract information and simply kill the man…just as Ludwig had done to him on the fields of Somme.

The German slowly turned his head and locked ice blue eyes with the Englishman's. Without a word, he tossed a tattered white cord with two silver disks attached at Arthur's feet. The Brit only briefly glanced at it before looking back at the German. He cautiously stepped forward and took the item, still holding and leveling the revolver, as he examined the disks.

It only took him a moment before he felt his heart drop and his eyes met the German's again, his right arm slowly dropping as the other turned.

"…If you understand…then I have a proposition for you…"

* * *

The Canadian troops had taken the village and what Germans hadn't gone down fighting were being searched for in the surrounding area. Morale was high as the soldiers counted few casualties among their number, but there were no blatant celebrations to be found. Groups were designated to attend to the wounded, the deceased, enemy hunting parties, and sweeping the town for any remaining booby-traps or ammo. One of the first soldiers breaking off from the main party to search the destroyed church had found their severely injured commander and the American.

The company corpsman was immediately summoned, and without fail all soldiers who could spare a hand were moving Matthew to a more secure location and tending to his injuries. As much as Alfred wanted to be one of them, not knowing where Arthur was had worried both him and his consciousness-failing brother. He had to find the man and bring him to Matthew as soon as possible…Matthew was his Dominion, so there had to be something he could do to help the healing process.

Not to mention Arthur had been badly injured as well, so the Englishman couldn't have gotten too far.

Alfred had canvassed the village before finding Arthur sitting on a fallen tree on the outskirts. He was hunched over, one hand still holding his side, and the other hanging over his knee with his revolver in hand. He was staring at the ground with a blank expression. There was a man pacing back and forth in front of him, looking angrier than a riled up hornet, and almost as disheveled as the seated Brit. Alfred faltered for only a second before approaching.

"Arthur!" He called out, only getting the angry human's attention, not even getting a stir out of Arthur.

Alfred blinked and almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. He recognized that human…but from where…

The human didn't look all that impressed by the approaching American, and turned to Arthur with a glare, saying something irately to him in an accent Alfred didn't recognize. Arthur closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead before responding with something that made his companion shout a curse and briskly storm off in a direction away from both of them. Alfred wasn't sure he was all too fond of whoever the hell that was, but he made his way to Arthur without further hesitation.

"Hey," he said, standing before the man and wondering why Arthur was being so quiet. "You disappeared on me. Listen, we can talk about it later, but right now Matthew needs help. Germany messed him up pretty bad and there's gotta be something you can do for him, right?"

Arthur didn't respond for a while, and Alfred's urgency and annoyance levels were rising. "Arthur, look, we need to get you some treatment too, so you need to come with –"

"I will get treatment when we get back to Paris."

Alfred had to stop at that. Paris? Paris wasn't on their agenda – in fact, that was in the opposite direction of where they needed to go. Regardless, they didn't have time to think about the mission right now when Matthew and Arthur were in such a state. They needed to be tended to first then they needed to figure out their next move.

"Look, Arthur, I know you're tough, but this really isn't the time to –"

"The time to what, Alfred?" Arthur shouted, his head coming up and his eyes locking on the American's. The blue-eyed blond was startled by the sudden change and watched as Arthur's demeanor transformed from looking nearly defeated to positively infuriated. "Time to disobey another order, and yap your bloody trap off to unauthorized personnel about our assignment? Time to take off and leave me stranded in the care of another homicidal spy, without any idea in the world where you went? Time to get yourself and an entire Allied unit killed because of your stupidity?" He demanded, now on his feet and in Alfred's pale face. "No, Alfred! The mission is over!"

For one of the few instances in Alfred's life, he couldn't find the will to speak. Shock and disbelief gripped every fiber of his being, and where shame wasn't trying to weed its way in, the need to scream back and defend himself was – yet no sound came out.

He had only spoken of the mission with Matthew…Matthew! He hadn't told anyone who would have compromised the mission; he would never have knowingly broken his silence to someone who could have used the information against them. He had never felt right about leaving Arthur in Arras, but it had been a Red Cross hospital, not some chaotic war zone or prison camp. At the mention of the "_homicidal spy_" a chill shot up his spine, but he had no idea where to begin on that one before he was reminded of just how badly things had gone here…

It wasn't as if Arthur had never disobeyed an order, but he doubted the man had ever made so glorious a blunder as this...and he probably didn't even know that he'd failed to kill Germany twice.

Alfred's eyes were downcast. He couldn't bring himself to look at Arthur after practically being read a list of charges meriting the worst kind of dishonorable relief of duty. If what Arthur said was true, if being unable to stop himself from telling Matthew about the mission and leaving Arthur had resulted in what happened here…then he really was responsible for all the lives lost today. He felt ill and disgusted, and even worse for the fact he had nothing to show for it but Arthur in ruins again trying to save his ass, and now Matthew teetering on the brink of his first death because he failed to kill Germany.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but the words…would never express the sentiment enough.

Arthur stood before Alfred only a moment longer before turning his head away with his own look of shame and disgust, though it was arguable if it was meant for Alfred. "I'm going to Matthew. Do not leave the village until I come to get you." Alfred didn't respond as Arthur left him alone.

Night was falling on the town and the soldiers were setting up camp. The decision was made not to leave until their commander was stable enough to move, and a defensive perimeter was made as men rotated between keeping watch and getting rest. Only a few individuals remained awake the entire night: the Australian who refused to leave a self-appointed post around a caved-in hole in the ground, the American who hadn't moved from the edge of the forest, and the Englishman who remained at the Canadian commander's bedside.

The humans who knew of their commander's condition didn't expect him to survive the night.

To Be Continued…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Woooow…I'M ALIVE! Shocking, I know. This maelstrom life of mine is sure to calm down eventually, right? …Right? T_T …Oh don't give me that look, you'll make me loose hope.

Again, I am so sorry for the late update; it truly kills me whenever it takes me forever to finish the next chapter for this story because I absolutely love writing it. I enjoy learning new things about history as much as I love sharing them, and I look forward to showing a little more of Arthur and Alfred's lives in the process~ I love developing their characters, and as they're so dynamic, they're never dull to write about. I know I had a lot more character and action content than history in this chapter (something most out of the norm for me), but I hope ya'll enjoyed it and it was still worth the wait. I promise to be back to more history in the coming chapters, but now we're getting down to the nitty-gritty and the serious business is about to really (as my Aussie put it) "_hit the fan_". Matthew isn't the first avatar casualty so far (that award went to Arthur in chapter one), but now we'll have to see if he'll be the first of the North American brothers to experience a death…promise you'll find out next chapter ;). Right now it looks pretty bad for the mission and as expected, young Alfred is a pretty crappy assassin (who'da'thunk'et?). Things have been insane the past few chapters, but I promise I'll give everyone a bit to wipe their brows and take a deep breath coming up (maybe then Arthur will reign in his temper and let us know what deal he made with Ludwig, hm?). In the mean time…

ON WITH THE NOTES!

…Not a whole hell of a lot this time!

-A quick reminder from the last chapter, this church (while in France) is more so based on the 13th century church I visited in England, with some architectural and structural alterations to suit the size of the establishment needed for this scene and the Catholic religion so prevalent in France…Also…I do apologize if…uh…destroying a church and an altar upset anyone. Its not my intention to offend, upset, or distress anyone; there are no personal attacks on religion or any secular group in what's written here. So, that's my disclaimer~

-Ta-da! Please give a warm welcome to Australian Lance Corporal, Lachlan Walker! While its no secret that my last O.C., Lukas Beck, wasn't suppose to…well, LIVE as he did (but because of so much positive reviewer feedback, and I was getting rather fond of the lad~ ya know), this O.C. was planned much further in advance. Stay tuned for more on him, and hopefully he'll be as well received as my lil' German soldier was.

-Wouldn't'cha know it? Ludwig is one tough dude to kill. There are multiple reasons why Ludwig is a little more indestructible than Arthur, Francis, and sadly, poor Matthew have shown to be in this story. I won't give too much away on the matter (as it WILL come up later), but know that the tides of war and the side that's holding up/advancing the furthest will have stronger national representations. Also, the more cohesive the alliances, the stronger the combined strength of the nations…just food for thought.

-The supernatural pull Matthew mentions when running into the church to find Alfred is something of my own design. In my head-canon, the avatars of the Dominions of their respective Empire (such as Canada, Australia, New Zealand, ECT) have a metaphysical connection with their sovereign representative (in this case, Arthur) that gives them more hyperawareness of him or her. Works in a number of ways, but the kind displayed here if a kind of fail-safe to where the Dominion cannot help but respond to his sovereign in distress. Its not something conscious on Arthur's part here, and if you ask me I'd say Arthur is less aware of his Dominions then they are of him (for a number of reasons, please do not think of me as thinking ill of Arthur/England). This would account for him not being able to exactly tell that it was Matthew and his men who had arrived as the support team, and not a group from Flanders, and why he was so shocked when he felt Matthew being shot…And only that note, to my Matthew fans, know that Arthur being there will have a positive effect for Matthew's health. Whether it'll be enough, we'll see, but know that Arthur will do what he can. :)

-Um…this'll be an odd one: if YOU see anything in this chapter you have questions about and would like a note on, please feel free to send me a message and ask. ^_^; Given I haven't slept in going on 24 hours, I may have missed something and I'd feel awful for leaving anyone behind. Thank you for your understanding!

As always, I owe my sincerest and most heartfelt thanks to my Beta editor, all of my consultants, and you guys, my absolutely wonderful readers. To all of you who read, reviewed, faved, and subscribed – thank you! You guys have been beyond incredible; the encouragement you have given me has been nothing short of inspiring. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! I am so humbled and honored every time. ^_^ You guys ROCK!

Peace Out From the U.S.A.~

General Kitty Girl


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter One Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Canada/ Matthew Williams

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XVIII

_"I Could Never Save You"_

_Just shy of one hundred and seventy years…_

_Had it only been so long?_

_Standing beside the window overlooking the Parisian streets below, it was hard to imagine that the army of red standing at attention would no longer be charged with protecting his most precious treasure from the terrors of the world. Some of these men had once fought on the soil of the New World, both in defense of it and from it, and now they would bear witness to the loss of it…_

_His loss of it…his loss of all of it…_

_The _Hotel d'York_ was a modest establishment compared to the grand British embassy just a few streets away, but the American representatives refused to meet anywhere but neutral ground. Arthur hadn't said much about it, merely resigning himself with a nod when his attendants announced the conditions of the negotiations in outrage. Both he and his king's human appointed representative, __David Hartley, rode in their carriage from the embassy to the hotel in silence. Upon arrival, they were greeted with the regiment of British soldiers lined up in the streets prepared to give both their support to their fellows and a sound British presence when the Americans arrived._

_Arthur did not acknowledge any of it. He kept his eyes in front of him and seemed to move forward without conscious thought…everything felt surreal to him._

_Just as it did the day he realized this event was inevitable._

_It had been just over two years since he'd been locked in the prison beneath the recaptured city of Yorktown, but the feeling of being imprisoned remained with him to this day. He felt forever trapped in his own nightmare, one he'd had several times before where he would start in the night, fearing someone had taken his colony from him…But this time, Alfred wasn't there to reach out a small hand and reassure him that it was only a dream…just as Arthur reassured him the ghosts weren't real._

_Now, his dream had become his reality, and he longed to wake up._

_The door to his room opened and a familiar presence entered, one he both expected yet loathed. Arthur kept his eyes closed a little longer, sparing himself the sight of the '_neutral delegate_' approaching with that air of satisfaction about him. The Englishman was neither in the mood nor had the patience to deal with the frog today._

_Silence stretched as the footsteps stopped. There was no tension between them…not at present; Arthur hadn't had the energy for such things since their last encounter during America's Revolution…but that didn't stop him from wishing the man was gone._

"…_This is a big day for your, _Amérique_, is it not?"_

_Arthur said nothing._

_The Frenchman allowed Arthur his peace for only a moment more before hooking a thumb in his belt and gazing out the window behind the man. His expression soured greatly. "I cannot wait for this to be over…never has the sight of so much red on my streets brought me pleasure."_

"_Then pluck your eyes out, Francis, and spare yourself the present and future."_

_A smirk twisted the corner of the Frenchman's mouth at that and he clicked his tongue. "A soothsayer are you now, _Angleterre_?"_

"_There is nothing soothing about the repetition of history, Francis…" Arthur replied, sounding worn until he finally opened his eyes and narrowed them on the richly garbed man in his presence. "Or reaping what you sow."_

_Rather than take it for the threat it was, Francis looked amused and held his chin in a thoughtful manner. "Indeed…I say you've reaped it beautifully, _non_?"_

_Arthur felt his temper rearing but did not rise to the bait as he remained in his spot against the sill, hearing a commander shout to make way for another carriage approaching…more than likely, the coach bearing the representatives of the third party of this meeting._

_Alfred among them._

_He could imagine the scene outside in vivid detail. His men parting like the Red Sea before the shepherds of the once oppressed people freshly liberated from the mighty king they now succeeded from. Walking like conquering heroes to the promised table, upon which they would receive the keys to the chains tethering them to tyranny. Freedom was in reach, and the righteous crusade they had waged was finally drawing to a close…_

_It both enraged and tore his heart to pieces thinking that would be the headline of all the papers back in America._

"_I think he has grown since the last time I saw him," came the voice of Francis next to him, the man having approached the window and making Arthur stiffen from having not noticed. "What do you think?"_

_The Englishman turned away from the sill completely, walking several paces away from the scene below and the Frenchman, as if he needed the safety of distance. "I do not care. He's here, let's get this over and be done with it," he snapped, having to swallow back the hurt of his own words._

_Francis continued to stare outside for a while before turning back to his European counterpart. The Frenchman was holding his arms crossed over his chest, and something weighted remained concealed in his hand. It didn't take Arthur more than a glance to notice it, and his eyes locked with Francis's very calm expression. _

_Though the Frenchman's eyes betrayed him as much as the gun._

"_No arms are permitted during these negotiations. What are you doing, Francis?" Arthur asked in a low tone, keeping his voice hard and just shy of demanding._

"…_When I lost Canada at the end of the war…I could still feel it…I could still feel the connection with my colony until the treaty was finalized years later. The moment Canada was truly no longer mine, I felt like a part of me had been gutted from my being," he said, his eyes tinged with grief as the gun rested against his arm. "It was painful, _Angleterre_, but painful in the sense that my heart was wounded and I could not die from it. I have lost colonies before, but never…had my reaction to it been so strong."_

_Ever mindful of the gun, his eyes still moving between it and the face of its owner, Arthur clenched his fist and fought to keep his shaking in check. It wasn't fear of the pistol tightening his stomach or making him swallow back impulsive words…it was fear of what his old nemesis was implying…something he'd been dreading since his nights spent alone in that prison cell in Virginia._

"_Are you hoping I'll hurt just as badly?"_

_Francis's gaze became distant and a silence fell between them. Eventually, barely a smile graced the Frenchman's face before he closed his eyes and gave a low chuckle. "I thought I did…but now I find myself wanting to offer you my gun in mercy, rather than use it on you in anger or give you the choice of using it on _Amérique_."_

_Arthur couldn't help himself as his eyes widened at that. Shoot Alfred? The war was over; he had had his chance and couldn't bring himself to have taken it then when it was acceptable. Now, Francis, the lad's supposed ally, would give him a gun to finish what he started here at the table of the war's end?_

"_Why?"_

_Francis lowered his eyes, still hosting that sad smile. "Because _Amérique_ is still young and not a nation yet, and he can still be spared the burden…he is still a colony and unlike us can die by means like this," he said, tapping the pistol against his arm. "You and I both know that without your shield he will be torn apart by the wolves of this world, and regardless of his victorious rebellion he is not ready to fight the rest of the world on his own. Perhaps I felt compelled to give you a second opportunity to spare him these things because this will be your last chance to do so…and feel more pain than when I lost my Canada." The Frenchman finally uncrossed his arms, holding the pistol at his side now in a limp hand as his expression softened. "You will still hurt if you don't…but after that document is signed, _Angleterre_…you have to let him go and live every day seeing him suffer, never being able to raise a hand to help him."_

"Alfred! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing…I'm taking my freedom since you won't give it to me."

_His chest constricted and he couldn't control the shaking anymore. He lowered his head and felt his insides burn with overwhelming frustration and sorrow._

"AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH IT? Do you have any idea what you're asking for? A dream? The high that satisfies a feeling you have? It's a delusional need that requires more responsibility than you have maturity to handle!"

"_Even I…am not so heartless to see you suffer like that, my old friend," Francis said softly, barely heard over the screaming of Arthur's memories._

_With his throat too tight to speak, the recollection of the night Alfred's angry and rebellious behavior finally exploded and the boy stood against him for the first time, the Englishman's heart seized and nearly stole his breath away. The disbelief and betrayal of that moment echoed within him now, and his final words to Alfred's stubbornness felt like the final nail in the coffin slated for Alfred's fate…for America's fate…_

"Welcome to the real world, Alfred. There is no one standing between you and the monsters here."

_Alfred had chosen his own path that night. He had dictated the course of his destiny and Arthur had known it from the moment he saw that fire in his sky-blue eyes. That potential for greatness, that need to stand on his own and fight had always been there and frightened Arthur to no end. However many times he tried to ignore it beneath Alfred's undying loyalty and faith, there was forever that spark in him that needed independence. The seed of self-destruction. _

_The monsters of this world were nothing compared to the monster inside Alfred's soul…_

_Its name was Freedom._

"You'll accomplish self-destruction without aid from me…"

_Francis remained staring at Arthur in silent contemplation as the Englishman's breaths calmed and his color returned little by little. Arthur's eyes had long since found their way to the floor, hidden behind lids fighting to conceal the incredible sadness reflected there. With resignation and only trace amounts of the deep mourning within him, he looked at the gun briefly…then soundly returned the gaze of his rival._

_Francis knew his decision before he ever spoke a word._

"_America will be his own nation after today," he said at length, and felt his heart sink beneath the burden of what that meant. "I will take no pleasure in watching him struggle in this world…but at the same time, I could no more save him from his greatest enemy as a spectator, than as his master or his ally…"_

_Francis gave a small contemplative sound before asking, "And what enemy would that be, _Angleterre_?"_

_Arthur turned away from the Frenchman, no longer concerned about the gun as he opened the door and heard the voices of the men below. Representatives Adams, Franklin, and Jay had come to see the finalization of the war and accompanied their new nation's avatar and the treaty on the long journey from America to France. He heard them…and among them he heard the one person he had fought the hardest to save…and knew he never could…_

"_Himself."_

* * *

Sitting against the wall beside Matthew, absently watching the silver discs rub between his fingers, he wondered whom he was truly being unfair to by calling off this mission. He knew that returning to Paris unsuccessfully would result in both him and Alfred getting shipped out of France, and however much of a reprieve that would be for any man in this forsaken country…nothing but misery awaited him and Alfred back in London and Washington. While Arthur could live with the public shame of failure, but private knowledge he'd done the right thing…Alfred couldn't, it would eat him alive.

Arthur would be saving Alfred's life, condemning the lad to living that life in disgrace.

Replaying in his head the words he'd spoken, he didn't regret any of them, even though he was a damn hypocrite in every way. Before leaving Paris, Arthur had done everything he could to convince his commander to remove Alfred from the mission and leave him behind. Had their situations in Arras been reversed, Arthur couldn't say that he wouldn't have been tempted to leave Alfred in the care of the hospital and go on with Matthew. He would have never spoken of the mission, but he knew Alfred was closer to his brother than anyone else…and given the fact he'd only had a man he greatly disliked for company for the past several months, he could see Alfred's need to seek his brother's confidence.

Arthur was in no way excusing Alfred's lack of restraint, but he could understand what had tempted him to disobey orders.

However, one thing that did cause Arthur incredible guilt, was having blamed Alfred for what happened to Matthew and his men. Regardless of what Alfred had or hadn't said, the unit had been doomed the moment they left Arras. The spies at the hospital hadn't needed Alfred to say a word for the Germans to know they were coming; all they needed to see was his face and his tags.

Tags Alfred likely had no clue he was missing.

A soft and muffled noise brought Arthur's attention back to man next to him. The blond on the spread layers of sleeping rolls and a pillow – fashioned from the corpsman's own jacket – slowly opened his unfocused violet eyes. Arthur watched him silently until the young man tried to turn his head and winced, finding only pain in the movement.

A hand hesitantly rose to touch the left side of his neck, but Arthur's voice stilled it. "It only just closed. I suggest you leave it alone."

Matthew visibly stiffened and Arthur noted how much paler the lad seemed to turn in his already anemic state. Arthur had known since the first time he encountered the boy that he'd been raised to fear him, and regardless of how much time went by Matthew still held the deep seeded trace of the boy who watched him kill the man he had called "_papa_". Admittedly, the Englishman couldn't say he had done everything in his power to ease that fear, which in the lad's later years had taken on closed-lipped loathing and distrust, but Arthur didn't take delight in it. Matthew's mask was on at a speed that should have made the older nation proud, but as he watched the Canadian keep his eyes averted…he only wished that it saddened him more.

Neither of them spoke for a long while, but eventually Matthew swallowed and broke the stalemate. "You don't…feel well…"

Arthur briefly looked down to his chest where he'd bandaged himself after dismissing the medic, but gave it no more thought. "Better off than you, for once."

Matthew hadn't taken the humorless joke well, and stared up at the low ceiling above him. "Did you find Germany?"

Silence fell again; the Englishman gripped the tags in his hand tighter as several thoughts ran through his mind, but he simply responded at length with, "Yes."

Arthur felt Matthew looking at him then, more so to gauge his reaction than to prompt a response – he imagined. Matthew rarely asked for answers; the lad was sharp and often knew the answers before the questions needed asking – he only ever required confirmation before moving on to the next thought.

While it was one of Matthew's greatest strengths and something Arthur held in high regard, he rarely gave his subordinate any expressions or gestures that betrayed his thoughts. Few remained an enigma to Matthew, but he worked hard to be one of them, and it reminded the young man of his place…most of the time.

"…Where's Alfred?"

"In the village, until we begin our return to Paris in the morning."

The pause that followed didn't have an air of shock to it, but surprisingly one of anger. Arthur turned his gaze in Matthew's direction and found his mask melting away; his eyes were tightly closed, his color returning, and his breaths coming a little quicker.

"He was only trying to save me," Matthew began his fists clenching at his sides, "and you. He would have gone after Germany if I hadn't been shot…you can't fault him for this."

Arthur remained stoic. "My decision has nothing to do with that."

Matthew fell silent again, his eyes open and watching Arthur for a reaction that wasn't forthcoming. Their eyes met, and when no answer came to the Canadian he again broke the stalemate. "Then why would you take him back?"

Matthew knew what would happen to his brother, too.

"There are several reasons…many of which I cannot discuss with you as you were never supposed to know why Alfred and I were traveling together to begin with," Arthur began, and Matthew's mask returned. "I could take him back based on what he told you alone and be perfectly justified in my reasoning. Leaving me in Arras before endangering another Allied unit…leaving his position with me in the tower before its collapse…proving untrustworthy to carry out his given assignment…take your pick."

"…With all due respect, sir," Matthew began, his eyes narrowing, "you wouldn't give up on something like this because Alfred was being Alfred."

That got Matthew the reaction he was looking for; Arthur's expression tightened and he simultaneously squeezed the metal discs in his hand. The act brought Matthew's attention to them and after a moment he recognized them before looking back up at Arthur who was now looking away.

"Those aren't BFE regulation tags."

Arthur continued to stare off in the direction of the wall opposite the Canadian, not saying a word as the silver discs began to draw blood in his hand.

* * *

-_Click_-

-_Snick_-

-_Click_-

'_See, Alfred, it's easy to pull the trigger_.'

-_Snick_-

'_So_…_why the hell can't you do it_ – '

-_Click_-

' – _when it matters most_?'

Alfred stood in the remains of the church, beneath the very spot where he'd had his last chance to do his job and failed. If he had just aimed where it counted and taken out the German instead of the chain, Matthew wouldn't be fighting for his life…and he wouldn't be covered in blood again.

The thought made him look down at the empty pistol in his hands, pull the hammer back and depress the trigger once again in the direction of the chandelier. His target wasn't there anymore, but he could still see the impressions of blood pools in the moonlight.

-_Snick_-

-_Click_-

"It works better with a magazine in it, mate."

Alfred lowered the pistol only a fraction before finally turning to see the human who'd been arguing with Arthur earlier, approaching him. His features were nothing extraordinary, save for maybe the scar that ran from the back of his ear to below his collar; still, he looked familiar somehow. His accent sounded like some variation of uncultured British, yet with a kind of rugged spirit all its own – if Britain had an open frontier and cowboys, the man would have been direct from its regions. Alfred knew he had to be from a Dominion…but which he wasn't sure.

The tan-skinned man gave the other a crooked smile and closed the distance between himself and Alfred as he withdrew a hand from his pocket and offered it to the American. "Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker, Australian Expeditionary Force."

It took a moment, but finally Alfred transferred his weapon to his left hand to take Walker's with his right, "Alfred Jones…United States Army," Alfred replied, noting the man's firm grip and rose an eyebrow. "…Have we met before?"

Walker smirked at that. "I'm not surprised I didn't leave much of an impression, Mr. Jones, but I was the one who pulled you and the pommy's sorry arses out of the wasteland and brought ya back to Arras."

Alfred's eyes widened at that and immediately the face in his memory and the one before him clicked. "Oh! The soldier with the Red Cross – I'm sorry I didn't…thanks again for that. I don't recall getting to say that the first time."

The Australian shrugged and withdrew his hand from Alfred's, putting it back in his pocket. "Your friend caused quite the mess gettin' out of Arras, had the whole city in an uproar. I was lucky to catch up with him before he tore off after ya, and even then convincing him to let me come along…that was fun."

While Alfred wasn't happy with the mental image of Arthur rampaging through the Allied-held city, his expression showed more confusion than anything, "…You…came here with Arthur?"

The man nodded. "Oh yes…see, we've got similar goals and were headin' in the same direction. Since I wasn't permitted to leave the city without a damn good reason, I figured chasing a possible AWOL officer was a well enough excuse," he said and withdrew a rolled cigarette from his pocket, putting it in his mouth before continuing. "It helps that, since I know what you blokes are, what I know and have to say is valuable enough for your buddy to want me around."

Alfred's eyes widened a fraction before a quick defensive retort came to mind. He was going to deny that he and Arthur were any different from the other human soldiers, but the man's choice of words and the look he was giving him caused the counter to die on his tongue. The man, rolling the cigarette between his lips, was looking intently at him as though waiting and wanting the lies to come – he was openly challenging him to deny what he was…

Feeling much more wary of the man, Alfred's eyes narrowed. "How much do you think you know, Mr. Walker?"

The Australian snorted, but never lost his smile, "Since we're droppin' formalities, mate, called me Walker," he began, "and apparently…I know much more than you. However, I'm a nice guy and willing to barter – nothin's free, but my prices are fair."

"What do you want?"

"Your help gettin' the pommy back on the road to Langemarck."

Alfred's gut twisted and he looked away. "…You apparently don't know Arthur very well. Once his mind's made up, that's it."

"Mn, that's where I beg to differ, mate. Ya see, he risked a hell of a lot going after your sorry arse, and now he's risking even more for it again." When he had Alfred's attention once more, Walker withdrew a match and tinder, lighting the cigarette before expelling the earthy-smelling smoke into the air. "I'm a direct man, Mr. Jones – I daresay even a tad blunt, so I'll skip pleasantries and just tell you the real reason he's callin' it quits, and that it has nothing to do with your less-than-military-approved behavior."

Alfred's eyes narrowed in wariness, but something about the prospect of Arthur having ulterior motives to return to Paris rang very plausible with him. He couldn't blame Arthur for being angry with him about all that had happened, but he had known Arthur long enough to know the man always had a better reason for his actions than what he was willing to admit. While Arthur had raised him and the memories were fond, he had spent almost half of his life on the opposing side of the cunning Brit than allied with him. Given their dire situation, it hurt to think that he couldn't completely trust Arthur now… to be fair, the man hadn't done anything to earn his suspicion, but given their history…

Since leaving Paris, Arthur had saved his life twice that he knew of, leaving Alfred in debt to the man. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to be repaying the man by questioning his character or his motives now.

Finally, Alfred drew himself back from his thoughts and spoke. "…I'm listening."

Walker didn't look like he had any doubts he wouldn't have.

"I was with your brother when he was shot." That made Alfred blanch, but Walker didn't pause. "We thought it was you trapped under all that crap, but when I went in to pull you out it ended up being the damn German. We struggled; he took my gun and shot your brother with it before he knocked me out. Thankfully, I've got a hard head so it didn't last long…but I didn't catch up to him in time..."

Alfred felt his stomach twist seconds before Walker finished his sentence, "...before your Brit friend let him get away."

A jet of cold washed through Alfred's body, freezing his blood at the man's words before he stared up at the Australian in disbelief. There was no way he heard him right – no, this guy…he was lying!

"No, I was the one who let him get away! Arthur wouldn't – he couldn't have! He was – "

"The Jerry was badly injured when we found him and his men were all dead or being hunted. He had no allies here and no means of escape other than the tunnel used to get here." Alfred paled at that, he hadn't realized there was an opening to the network in the village. "Arthur knew that just as well as I did; we found that tunnel the first time we scouted this place and he damn well knew that's where the German would head. By the time I realized it myself and got there, I saw him standing idle while the Jerry escaped and the entrance was blown."

As Alfred gaped at the man, complexion paling, Walker continued and took another step forward.

"For someone who knows what you all are, it doesn't take a lot of brain power to figure out what you're after, and your job is in Belgium just like mine. I don't know about you, mate, but I do my job and whatever's necessary to see it done right; if that means puttin' up with you and the pommy all the way to Belgium, so be it."

Alfred's fist tightened and his body tensed. Walker was wise enough to rethink taking another step, but he didn't retreat as the American stared him down and took a wider, more aggressive stance.

"Knowing what we are…and _who_ we are, pal, are two different things. You've made a lot of accusations against a guy I've known and trusted for a long time and haven't given me one shred of reason to believe a word of it. You want me to buy that Arthur's as guilty of failure as I am, you'd better be backing up your words or just backing the hell up," he growled, eyes burning with anger. The need to defend Arthur came to him easier than expected; Arthur had sacrificed a lot for him since coming here – he didn't deserve such swift doubt based on the words of a man he didn't know. The guilt of doubting Arthur before was beginning to swell, and it fueled the growing emotions inside.

Walker inclined his head and took a draw on the cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it out with his boot. "Fair enough… Ya missin' something, mate?"

"…What?"

"They're different from what we're issued, but I've seen enough American soldiers to know you blokes are never far from your shiny silver tags…Where are yours?"

Alfred looked annoyed at the question and reached down his shirt with one hand to produce a white cord, slightly discolored from wear, with two silver tags attached. Sneering, he shook them before the Australian. "Like you said, never far."

"Are they the originals?"

While the question was still odd, Alfred recalled that they were indeed the secondary pair he'd been issued to keep with his things as he had lost the first shortly after arriving in France. He didn't think much of it at the time, simply that he'd either misplaced them or forgotten them Stateside. "Why is that relevant?"

As if Alfred had straightforwardly answered his question, the Australian snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. "Because they're currently in the possession of the Briton, who got them as a parting gift from the man who was sent here to kill you."

Silence stretched between the two. Alfred's atmosphere shifted from potentially hostile to stunned inconceivability. Walker simply let it sink in for a few moments, watching the American sway slightly where he stood and look like a man standing before the ghost of St. Peter. The would-be assassin had been the target of an assassination before he'd even received his first orders in France, and had unknowingly delivered himself and Arthur right onto the enemy's doorstep.

Alfred had to really think back to when he and his troops first touched down in France, that he'd been wearing his first set of tags around his neck like the others and his secondary pair was in his gear-sack with the rest of his personal effects. He remembered wearing his tags in Paris when he and General Pershing first went through the city…but after he got to the camp…

Somehow someone knew he'd been accompanying the first wave of American soldiers over and somehow…someone managed to steal his dog tags either in Paris or at the American base camp and deliver them to the Germans as proof. Not only that, but in managing to get his tags they had managed to get his human name, knew what he looked like from when he'd been in Paris, and again when he arrived in Arras…Oh God, Arras…Someone had recognized him in Arras and that's how the ambush was set up here in the village.

Before June, Alfred hadn't had much face-to-face contact with others of his kind beyond the Atlantic; aside from select countries he'd been at war with, allied with, or perhaps traded with, he'd never formally introduced himself to other avatars. Even fewer avatars, even one's he'd met in person, knew his human name – his first name given to him by Arthur as a child, and his middle and surname chosen well after he'd last had such heavy interaction with the world. But now he was back on the global stage after so long in isolation, and it seemed his enemies had taken his presence there more seriously from the get-go than he originally thought. With information like what was on those tags and knowing his face, it had been easy for them to set up the ambush…and before, what Arthur said about the spy in Arras…

He had left Arthur in the care of an assassin meant for him!

The realization sent shockwaves through his body and his knees almost buckled. Never, in any war he'd been in had he ever been the target of such underhanded tactics. People had tried to kill him on and off a battlefield, in wars and in duels, but never had he been marked for assassination. The feeling was beyond unsettling and made him want to put his back against a wall and never move. Someone, the enemy, had taken something he had taken for granted, something very personal to him, and was using it to hone in on him and take his life…

They had stolen his identity.

Alfred's heart was pounding in his chest as a mixture of fear and desperation gripped him; he wanted to take action, to do something about this and protect himself and those inadvertently being put in danger around him, but he had no clue what to do. The memory of the German's face when he saw him, that look of absolute surprise and his determination to kill him regardless of the cost – he was seeing it in a whole new light now, and the long-since-healed wound in his stomach began to throb…he felt the German's knife inside of him all over again.

"You done yet?"

The voice brought Alfred back to himself and he realized he was rubbing his abdomen. He quickly lowered his hand and looked back at the Australian watching him intently, and swallowed. He was sweating profusely – he didn't want to admit it, but he was really scared now.

Walker didn't wait for his answer as he uncrossed his arms and began to circle the American. "None of us have time to sit around here and dawdle, especially not you. If you and the pommy think going back to Paris will save you, think again. The Germans have spies everywhere, even in Paris, and it's one of the main reasons your mission was so top secret – am I right?" Alfred didn't respond, not only because he couldn't deny it, but also because he was more concerned with keeping a closer eye on the man nearly behind him. "Your best chance is to keep going, finish your mission and take out the source of your problems. That man was Germany's avatar, I could tell, and chances are he's not gonna stop until you're either dead or off this continent…which, if by some miracle you do make out, I can only imagine you'll be welcomed home like some kind of hero, eh?"

Heroes weren't men who failed…and going back to Washington before this was over was beyond unthinkable for him. It was just the kind of opportunity Lansing and his cohorts needed to have him put under lock and key for God knew how long…

In that moment, Alfred realized what his choices really were. The perspective became much clearer in this light, and the incredible fear inside of him began to subside. Did he want to be a target? No, not any more than he wanted to die…But it really did come down to taking a stand and doing the job, risking death to free himself of the mark and burden, or return to the shame and safety of Washington's vault to live in a cell designed specifically to hold an embodiment of freedom like him.

When the Australian finished rounding him, the man's expression lit up in surprise as the American actually smiled – however bitterly.

'_Give me liberty, or give me death'…weren't those your words, Patrick?_

"So…what's it gonna be?"

Alfred raised his eyes to the other and pulled out his sidearm, unclipping a magazine from his belt before slamming it home into the pistol and chambering a round. He knew this time when he pulled the trigger there wouldn't be a phantom bullet or target.

"I'll let you know after I find Arthur."

* * *

The medic had returned not a moment too soon to check on Matthew, and reoffer his services to Arthur. The Brit left without a word as Matthew quietly seethed with rage behind the now closed door…a door the Englishman currently leaned back against.

He closed his eyes and reasoned that he had stayed long enough to give as much as he could to heal Matthew; staying any longer would only be a step in the opposite direction.

The wellbeing of his Dominions was his responsibility as their sovereign and Empire. Just as his government was responsible for aiding and overseeing the affairs of its holdings, the avatars that embodied those lands were charges under his care. In Matthew's condition, Arthur could hasten his recovery by remaining in his presence, allowing his Dominion to take what was needed from his being until he could sustain himself. He couldn't remember a time since 1812 when Matthew had ever needed to tap such an effect from him, but after the Battle of Somme and more recently in the church earlier that day, Arthur had needed to tap the other side of the coin from Matthew. As Arthur could provide for his Dominions in need, his Dominions were obligated to respond when their sovereign was in need.

Matthew could have never navigated the field of mud and dead bodies at Somme to find him without that extra sensory; he would have been lost to No-Man's-Land until his body ceased fighting to repair itself and regenerated back in his homeland…and who knew how long that would have taken.

There was no debt to be paid for what Matthew had done for him; just as Arthur had a personal responsibility to give to Matthew on the brink, Matthew has been obligated to retrieve and tend to him two years ago. Arthur wasn't even sure he had ever thanked Matthew for what he did…but knowing Matthew, the lad wouldn't have been expecting one. It wasn't from any dislike of Matthew that he withheld gratitude, far from it…

Aside from the multitude of professional reasons and excuses, Arthur knew deep down it was to forever keep Matthew at arm's length to prevent him from becoming another Alfred.

Arthur looked at the wall ahead of him and tried to feel the reassuring pulse of his empire, but only the bare echoes that managed to filter through the fog timed with his heartbeat. He had been detached from his native soil for too long and was out of sync with anything beyond what was happening in France. As he feared before, his body was clinging to the last remnants of his power still reachable after so long away from home…his men, his soldiers who were dying in droves. He was becoming more like them and less like himself all the time, and the feeling of ever-creeping mortality was frightening.

Would he ever become human? In essence, no…but in power, in mind, in spirit? He felt more and more like one every day. The high of power he'd received since his recovery in Arras had worn off in fueling his healing after what happened at the church and healing Matthew, allowing the feeling of age to settle around him.

He couldn't keep this up much longer, but how much time he had left…even he didn't know.

Pushing off the door, Arthur began to head down the hall of the makeshift clinic, but was stopped by the presence of another standing before him. He looked up to find Alfred, a look of nervousness and determination on his face as he kept his hands tight at his sides and barred the other's exit. Arthur seemed less concerned with that than he was with the fact that he could feel the power of Alfred's nation surrounding and rolling off of him in a way he would have never thought possible more than three hundred years ago…

It saddened him more than anything, because nothing about it was shared between the two of them.

"Arthur, we need to talk."

The Brit didn't say anything at first; he continued to observe Alfred before deciding he knew what this was about and that he didn't want it anywhere near Matthew. "Then we do so outside," he finally responded, and waited for Alfred to take the hint and move before walking past him towards the doors leading out of the corridor.

Outside was dark and cold. The moon was high and provided some light, but the cloud cover moving in gave the moist taste to the air all the more validity of rain. The weather in France had been unseasonal and working against the Allies since mid 1916, with its shorter spring, unbelievably long winter, and more rain year round than ever recorded in France to date. The mud of France was becoming one of Arthur's least favorite things in the world, and it seemed that this village he had also learned to hate would be covered in it before the coming of the dawn.

Alfred emerged from the building behind him and Arthur deeply inhaled the chilly night air. He could see his breath when he exhaled, and felt the frigid temperature quickly seeping in through the material of his uniform and trying to burrow its way through his skin. Yet another sign he was getting dangerously human.

"…Arthur, I know I screwed up."

The Englishman shook his head of his thoughts and schooled his expression before turning around to face the American again, crossing his arms in an effort to keep warm in just as much a gesture of displeasure. "That's an understatement."

To his credit, Alfred took the jab with grace and seemed rather serious about continuing without showing emotion over the comment. "I want us to keep going on to Belgium and I want us to finish the job. Since leaving Paris we haven't done a single cohesive thing, conscious at least, together and it hasn't benefited our cause…I admit that I've made the most mistakes, but I'm willing to learn from them and move on."

Arthur didn't react to his words one way or another, and Alfred's lips formed a tight line as he tried to give Arthur time to respond without interruption. When Arthur made no move to answer, Alfred broke his silence.

"Neither one of us wants to have to endure what'll happen if we go back to the commanders without results, and as pissed with me as you are I've never known you to just give up on anything. Even when I fought for independence you gave me hell the whole way – "

"If hell is what you're asking for, Alfred, then it can be arranged," Arthur suddenly bit back with a sharp tongue, fighting not to hold his arms tighter.

"As of right now, Arthur…you've set hell up good and tight for me along with the one-way ticket back to Washington," the American returned, his temper rising at the thought and his mind consciously working to keep it under control. "What I'm asking for now is for you not to give up on this mission, especially if it's over a reason that's based on a decision pertaining to my fate and my fate alone."

At that, Arthur froze on the spot and locked intense green eyes with Alfred. "…And how do you determine that your fate is your concern alone?" he said, in a tone that betrayed the fear and anger he'd been trying to hide, he made the American really have to muster his courage before thinking about plowing ahead.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred drew himself up and met Arthur stare for stare. "You'll find out anyway that Walker told me about the tags and about the German's plan to assassinate me. They seem to have had the idea in place longer than we have, and thinking about it as you would, it makes sense to want me dead. My troops aren't the most experienced, but they are the freshest and if they know anything about the size of my army then they know they'll be outnumbered by next year. If I'm dead, this significantly damages the chances my guys have at success. You said that it was an option of last resort to take measures like these against others of our kind, which means they're as desperate as we are to end this. In some ways…isn't that a good sign?"

Arthur did not seem impressed with this logic, "I'm glad you're so optimistic about being a fucking target."

At that, some of the residual fear from before shown in Alfred's eyes, making them tighten as he held his gaze on Arthur, "I'm not. God knows I'm scared shitless about it," he confessed, giving Arthur pause that disclosed a bit of his surprise. "But given what comes with running away from my responsibility, I'd rather take my chances and see this thing through to the end. Given it's my neck on the line, and my nation and guys that have to suffer for it…don't you think the decision is mine?"

Silence stretched between them for a moment, and Alfred swallowed before licking his lips and shoving his numbing hands into the pockets of his uniform tunic. He still felt the knot of tension in his gut; even after confessing all that and admitting just what was at stake here he still felt incredible anxiety…because Arthur still hadn't responded. He needed him to respond.

"Truth be told…I'd feel a lot better if the partner I started this with were there to finish it with me. I'd don't want to do this alone…"

Alfred kept the silent '_please_' to himself.

Arthur flinched at the words and felt his chest tighten. He wanted to believe Alfred had no idea what he was asking him to do, but deep down he knew Alfred was well aware. When they left Paris he had been under orders to bring his former son before Germany to either destroy him or be destroyed by him; now, that very person he aided in condemning was asking him to volunteer to keep going when this was their last chance to back out. This was their last chance to turn back, and Arthur's last chance to save Alfred…

But Alfred…was telling him he didn't want to be saved.

"…Germany…he told me you failed to kill him twice."

Alfred's shoulders slumped a bit and he nodded. "It's true."

"What guarantees that if we continue, you'll really finish the job?"

The American's expression didn't change as he looked up at Arthur and said with sincerity, "You'll just have to trust me."

Arthur gave a short and bitter laugh. "That's the best you can give me?" The Englishman scoffed and shook his head, his expression torn and frustrated as he debated with himself about just how much he trusted Alfred.

The boy was a nation now, a young man but a man nonetheless. He had fought for and won his independence, true enough, but also had a less than admirable track record in decision-making since then. America was a nation built on risks, some that cost a high price for its mistakes and others that had made it such a sought-after ally in this war. What had once been thirteen small colonies had become forty-eight states and nearly one-half an entire continent in less than one hundred and fifty years. If Alfred and America's short history had taught Arthur anything, it was to trust that both avatar and nation were unpredictable. For a nation birthed by the bloodiest of means, scourge of two of the greatest empires on the globe, and survivor of one of the bloodiest civil wars in any nation's history, Alfred was the only avatar he knew who couldn't pull the trigger when staring down one of his own. He had once challenged Alfred that he would push him to find out what would make him finally take the life of another nation, but he wasn't fully convinced that Alfred had reached that point yet.

Even if Alfred was willing to risk his own life to find out how far he was willing to go, Arthur wasn't sure he was.

"…You are your own nation now, America."

Alfred looked wary for a moment after Arthur addressed him by his nation-name instead of his human one. Even when on their worst terms, Arthur rarely spoke to him so formally.

"I said that to you in Paris the day I relinquished all claims to you. You gained the power to make your own decisions that day, to think and governor for yourself and carve your own place in the world with no other name but your own…That's what it means to be an adult among us, to be an independent nation," Arthur continued and felt the first icy raindrop on his face.

More began to fall by the time Alfred took a step forward and felt the conflicting need to reach out a hand to Arthur and the need to question why. The Englishman didn't seem to notice as he looked at the ground with a far-off gaze, seeing something beyond what was visible to Alfred as the mud began to form between them.

Alfred opened his mouth to ask Arthur what he was thinking, but the other closed his eyes and broke his own thoughts before letting his arms fall, not caring that it was raining again. "Knowing that they're coming for you and you still want to go to Langemarck, then we will continue onward. We'll leave once we have confirmation that the units in the north will be here to assist Matthew's. Matthew will live, but he will need time to recover…time best bought in the safety of a larger division."

Alfred's expression tightened at the mention of his brother, whom last he had seen had been bleeding profusely and whisked away by his men for care. He had been told by the corpsman later that Matthew's chances were slim and he didn't want to alarm the unit just in case. As Alfred had not been permitted to see him, his only comfort had been that Arthur was with him, and somehow that had to be enough.

Matthew wasn't as strong as him, but his brother could fight like the dickens; with this many people counting on him, Matthew would pull through…he had to…

Hearing Arthur confirm that, Alfred felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders and he felt like collapsing. Mud be damned, the relief was welcomed. "…Can I…can I see him?"

The rain was beginning to fall harder and felt like icy daggers against his body, but the Brit stood firm as he looked sharply at the American and shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea at the moment." He wouldn't elaborate further, as it would have required explaining to Alfred that the Canadian was furious that Arthur was keeping secrets that could get him and Alfred killed, and more than likely spur the American to leak even more unauthorized material in a less-than-secure environment.

After all he'd learned in Arras and from Ludwig…he wasn't about to take chances like that ever again, even here with Matthew.

Alfred seemed ready to protest or at least pry for more information, but was stopped short when Arthur quickly cut him off. "Where's Walker?"

Wiping some rain water from his glasses, Alfred nodded in the direction of the ruins beyond them. "Last I saw him was in the church…why?"

Arthur didn't respond before changing the subject. "If Walker sent out the transmission properly yesterday, then reinforcements should be here tomorrow. We'll move out once they get here, so until then I suggest you get some rest…but this is an order, Alfred – stay away from Matthew until I say so, understand?"

The American looked stunned and then affronted before he opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, a look from Arthur silenced him again.

The intense look of warning reminded him of just how thin the ice he skated was.

"I don't give a damn about your theories on rank from here on out, Alfred. If you want me to trust you, then start by following orders. Stay away from Matthew until designated otherwise…that could not be any clearer."

Without waiting for the American's reply, Arthur turned on his heel in the direction of the church and was soon lost in the curtain of rain obscuring the night. Alfred remained rooted to the spot until the cold became too much for him and he shivered, hunching in on himself as he headed towards the first shelter he could find…

Then turned away to search for someplace else that wasn't the clinic.

To Be Continued…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Hi everyone, and welcome back! I know its been a while and I really apologize for the wait, but I hope the few shorts I put up in the "Hetalia Collection" were good enough apologizes and pieces to tide ya'll over. I'm back to school now and just started my senior internship this semester, so life is going to get even more hectic for me, but I'm determined to keep updating and finish this fic. :) Rest assured, folks, this WILL get finished!

I need to thank all of my amazing consultants for all of their awesome work and patience with me this entire project, and I cannot thank my Beta enough for taking time out of her busy life to work on this for me. YOU GUYS ROCK MY WORLD, I LOVE YOU! 3

Quick note before I begin the Historical Notes portion, I wanted to comment on the poll I put up on the front page a while back and FINALLY figured out how to review the results of (don't make fun of me, I usually do almost everything online these days on no sleep and partially zombified)…and gotta say: WOW! Dead-heat split between Alfred and Arthur on the love votes with one wildcard under the "Other" section; then I recheck the poll like LITERALLY the next day and somehow Arthur upped Al by one vote! D8 I'll be darned! Would ya look at that; Arthur's got a fan club! XDDD Thank to everyone who voted and know that I appreciate all the feedback!

ON TO THE NOTES!

-The opening flashback takes place in Paris, France where the Treaty of France that officially ended the American War of Independence was signed by Britain, the United States of America, and overseen by the neutral party of France. King George III sent representative David Hartley on behalf of Great Britain, and representatives Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay were present on behalf of the United States. Since tensions (even after the last shot was fired at Yorktown in 1781) were still high between the two countries, the Americans refused to meet at the British Embassy in Paris. Instead, the _Hotel d'York_ was chosen and not without a lot of frowning on the British end. So, to kinda save face (and give a little show of intimidation), the British had a regiment of soldiers stationed outside the hotel in the street; there's actually a really cool historical drawing someone made of it...but sadly, since won't let me hyperlink things, you'll have to hunt it up on your own. T_T

- The "just shy of one hundred and seventy years" from the time this scene in 1783 takes place would be referring to the time America was first colonized by England/became part of the British Empire. This would also be about the time Arthur found and adopted Alfred…or…Alfred kinda LET Arthur adopt him…XD you decide, the story of it is in the "Hetalia Fic Collection" here on my account~

-The Seven Years War in the North American Theater came to an end in 1760, but the treaty finalizing the surrender of New France/Canada to the British Empire in exchange for islands in the Caribbean wasn't until 1763. These things took time back in the day, eh?

- American/Australian relations at this time: To be honest…there's not a lot of info on it. What I DID find of relations between America and Australia prior to WWI consisted of a visit by The Great White Fleet in 1908. President Theodore Roosevelt had given the U.S. Navy the task of circumnavigating the globe with a large number of ships, and the Prime Minister of Australia at the time enthusiastically invited the fleet to visit the country in their travels. The trip turned into a massive political push towards Australia getting its own independent Navy (as it was still under the British Empire, who pretty much had the monopoly on Navies), and resulted in the first purchases of Australia's own warships…which apparently did NOT sit well with England, but hey – America was all for it and praised Australia for sticking to its guns and moving forward with its plans for its own Royal Australian Navy. :) So…even though Alfred isn't very personally familiar with Australians or Australia in general here, America is (I kind of see Alfred still recuperating from the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, and the Philippine-American War when his government was first making connections with Australia). Uh, also another little bit…PLEASE FORGIVE MY AUTROCIOUS AUSTRALIAN ACCENTING AND LINGO! *Awaits the hail of boots*

-American WWI dog tags had a soldier's name, rank, regiment, serial number, and depending upon the year and where they were stamped they may also have the soldier's home state. Since Alfred is a national avatar and (in my mind) doesn't really hold a rank, as he is only in the military during times of national crisis…if you were picturing Alfred's, they'd read something like:

ALFRED F. JONES  
SPECIAL COMMAND  
1st DIVISION

07041776

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Cool fact: if you know anything about American military regiments, then 1st Division should be very familiar to you…if not, know that the U.S. Army 1st Division is the oldest in the United States Army and many times referred to as "The Big Red One" in recognition of the giant scarlet "1" on the division patch worn by its members. :) Damn proud of 'em, too.

-"_Give me Liberty, or give me death_!", were the famous words of Patrick Henry; one of the Founding Fathers of America, early governors of Virginia, and one kick ass speech giving patriot who stirred the hearts of politicians and common citizens alike towards supporting the Revolution. :) I felt inserting his most famous quote was most appropriate here

Alrighty, ladies and gents, FINALLY got back to doing a lot of notes (as the previous few chapters didn't have a whole lot). :) So that makes me happy! We're actually truckin' ever closer to that end, now, so know that once we reach Belgium the pages will be numbered. Once again, thank you to all of my readers, reviewers, subscribers, and supporters! Between everyone here and on deviantart, the feedback has be AMAZING and I'm really at a loss of word by how incredible you guys are and how much you keep me going. ^_^ Thank you so much for everything! Best wishes to all and I hope to have the next chapter up as soon as I can!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Violence and Death Themes

Chapter Nineteen Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XIX

_"Flanders"_

Arthur stood in the center of the street leading into the decimated village and watched as a group of haggard soldiers trudged towards him. Silence echoed everywhere but for the scraping of boots over the dust-covered road and the debris kicked up every now and then. More than once, one of the approaching soldiers would lag after being overcome by a coughing fit, and younger Canadians whispered the Lord's name as they began to form a crowd behind the British avatar.

These were the reinforcements Walker had radioed almost two days ago, and they looked worse than the Canadians they had come to help.

Arthur watched their slow advance with a blank expression. He stood immobile with his rifle at his side, one arm raised to return a salute as the man at the head of the war-torn pack reached him. The man's uniform was riddled with holes and dirt, and his skin color might as well have been gunpowder for the amount of it obscuring his hands and face – the only white to him seemed to be his eyes.

The man was Second Lieutenant Edward Mason, and he was the remaining commanding officer of the recovery group sent from the salient to find a supply train said to have been destroyed due east of this location. (Arthur briefly recalled the train he and Alfred had been riding in that had been attacked, and noted that the Germans seemed to be getting braver about strikes on the railroads.) The party had been formed from various companies of men from the trenches who could be spared… this included the young, the inexperienced, and generally the people who weren't mentally handling the front to the point where it was making the already low morale worse. The ragtag unit had lost no less than fifteen of its members on the four day journey from Ypres; as Arthur listened to the officer's hushed report, his eyes strayed to the soldiers he had led here and was amazed he hadn't lost more.

Some of the men had already given in to their fatigue and collapsed on the ground under the weight of their gear, sitting or lying wherever they were without a care, all of them silent as ghosts. None of the Canadians had waited for the order to step in and help them; the North Americans converged on the exhausted Brits and began giving what little food and water they had. None of them seemed to care about national elitism or the politics that had brought them here, or the ever-present bickering so common amongst troops from different countries…only the automatic response of one soldier to aid another.

It was the only positive thing about the scene, and Alfred being among those giving aid did not escape Arthur's notice.

The Englishman looked on until the officer before him began to sway and nearly fell forward into him. Arthur immediately extended an arm to steady the man as the officer blinked rapidly and looked almost confused as to what had happened; it was then that Arthur realized the man had been falling asleep on his feet – as the leader, chances were the man hadn't slept since being put in charge.

"We'll take the briefing inside where you can take your gear off and see the medic," Arthur began, not leaving room for argument, but seeing one coming anyway when the man's eyes snapped into focus and his expression hardened.

"All due respect, sir…send your medic to the men first. I only need whatever warm beverage you can spare and I'll be fine."

Arthur considered the man a moment before retracting his hand and allowing him to stand on his own two feet again.

He then respectfully replied, "Of course."

* * *

Overall, only twenty-four of the close to forty-man group who had left the trenches of Flanders had made it to the village. What men hadn't died from injuries received in the salient, fell to the illnesses accumulated in the same place and robbed them of any chance of surviving France. None of the remaining were untouched by some kind of ailment, be it bone-breaking exhaustion or actual broken bones. The sole medic of the Canadian unit had his hands full, and many of his comrades wordlessly volunteered to aid in caregiving to help with the load.

From what Arthur had learned from Mason, who had only assumed the role after the lieutenant above him had died from festering shrapnel wounds, his soldiers were in desperate need of all the aid they could get.

Arthur had a lot to consider before finally leaving the briefing, speaking with the medic for an update on the conditions of the soldiers, and weighing the Canadian unit's state with that of the other company. With Matthew still recovering from his injury and both the British and Canadian companies running low on supplies, chances were high that a group of this size making it to Flanders was highly unlikely. On top of that, he doubted anyone from the recovery unit would willingly return to the trenches…and looking at their dead stares, it would be cruel to ask it of them.

With so many unfavorable factors and so many wounded, Arthur made his decision and returned to the makeshift hospital to speak with Mason before the man truly passed out.

The orders he gave seemed to put the soldier at ease, and the human closed his eyes and slept soundly for what looked like the first time in years.

* * *

Earlier, when the British company had first arrived, Alfred had been one of the men helping to move those who couldn't make it under their own power to the hospital. He had been able to support two men at a time and see them settled before going back for more. Once everyone had been placed he found himself asking for packing and bandages to help dress the wounded. For the first time since joining the Canadian company, all of the men of Matthew's unit seemed to look at him with a kinder eye, and the medic directing them all took the time to individually thank him.

He quietly mentioned that commander Williams would be happy to hear of his actions too, and that he'd be sure to let him know. Alfred was more grateful for any kind of communicable bridge with his brother than anything else.

However much Alfred had wanted to see Matthew and talk to him in person, he wanted to try to obey Arthur's orders, and left the hospital before the temptation to look for his twin became too great. That was how he found himself at the hospice.

Outside, a few buildings down from the makeshift hospital, the medic had asked Alfred to move two of the soldiers to the smaller, quieter location. What had once been a single-family home was now to be a hospice, and Alfred's job was to see them there and make them comfortable until the medic was free to tend to them. While Alfred had first balked at the assignment, he understood the decision had been made to give the soldiers some peace and to hinder lessening the morale of the survivors, or the Canadians who were growing warier of what was to come. Now, the American was sitting on the windowsill of a cleared out living room, overlooking two men who likely wouldn't see tomorrow.

Alfred's rifle rested across his bent leg, propped up on the sill, and his gaze remained averted to his pack he had left beside him…ready to go once Arthur told him to move out. Part of him wished Arthur would be ready soon but another part of him was ashamed to admit it, which left him feeling even more responsible not to leave his charges alone at death's door.

Regardless of his immortality, the thought of death genuinely scared Alfred…but even more frightening than that was the thought of dying alone. He wouldn't wish that upon anyone, especially not one of the humans before him whose deaths would be final.

Alfred sighed and rested his head back against the stone framing the shelled-out window. The ceiling above was low and dark, and Alfred couldn't help but think that it was a crappy last thing to see in life. While he still didn't want to die, he kind of hoped that it happened outside, someplace where he could see the sky so maybe it wouldn't be so bad…

A cough broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked down to see one of the soldiers giving weak convulsions as he tried to turn on his side. Alfred immediately propped his rifle against the wall and knelt beside the man, helping him get into a more comfortable position as a wet sickness rattled his lungs. Alfred could hear how hard the soldier had to struggle just to breathe, and his heart began to sink as he held the man while his shaking increased. The man was pale and felt near skeletal in his hands; he was afraid the man's coughs might break him apart.

Without thinking, Alfred reached over and struggled to grab his pack, pulled it close and yanked free the blanket roll strapped to it. Though the soldier was already covered in a thin sheet, Alfred wrapped his thicker blanket tightly around the man as his spasms ebbed. After holding him for several minutes the man quieted and Alfred feared the worse until he checked his pulse and found it weak, but there. Unconsciousness was the only peace this man was going to get until his life left him, and Alfred knew it…but it hurt to accept.

"That was kind of you."

Alfred had been laying the dying soldier down when he heard the voice, and glanced over to see the other man on the floor looking at him. He didn't seem any better than the first soldier, but regardless of his obvious exhaustion the Brit's eyes were focused and watching him. Alfred swallowed and found himself wanting to look away, but couldn't.

"I did what I hoped anyone would do."

"Blankets are hard to come by…giving one to the sick means you'll never get it back. You've sentenced yourself to freeze for a dead man."

The man's voice was hoarse and whispery, but his words carried and Alfred hung his head. "Compared to what he's been through, I'd rather freeze than let a man die thanklessly, any day."

Silence stretched between them before the sound of cloth shifting drew Alfred's attention back to the soldier. His eyes were closed and he looked pained, but seemed determined to pull something off from around his neck that was hidden beneath the tattered cloth covering him. Alfred moved to help, but the soldier gave him a look demanding that he be allowed to do this himself. Finally, the man pulled the item off into his clenched hand, which flopped weakly to the floor. His breaths were more labored now and Alfred heard the same rattling sound in his lungs as the other, but finally the tired soldier looked at him again and loosened his grip.

"Then…thank me. No one will take something from…a man with the sickness," he began, and closed his eyes again as his breaths became shallower. "…Please…send them…home…"

Alfred hesitated, looking between the man's barely rising chest, his gaunt face, and his lifeless hand. The American knew human illnesses couldn't affect him, but the burden the man asked still weighed heavily upon his being. This man didn't know him from any other nameless soldier, and he knew the man would be able to tell by his accent that he wasn't British. He supposed he might have mistaken him for Canadian in his borrowed uniform, but it still didn't warrant the man's trust. Regardless, whether it was desperation or for some other reason, Alfred set his resolve and took the small disks from his hand.

The soldier's eyes opened and met the American's sky-blue eyes, filled with sadness. "Where is home, soldier?"

The man returned a small smile and coughed softly, "Cheltenham…in Gloucestershire…I-I've got my dad there…" He said, his voice fading as his expression wilted. "…I can't remember…what he looks like…"

Alfred's heart and throat clenched; the tags now in his hands were the soldier's final admission that he wasn't ever going home, and Alfred's every fiber wanted to tell him differently. Every word of encouragement, every plea for optimism and for the man to fight were trapped inside of him as his head told his heart just how cruel such words would be. He swallowed hard and clutched his hand around the tags.

"I'm sorry…"

It was all he could think to say as his eyes began to burn with unshed tears.

The sound of someone calling his name went unnoticed for some time until the man from Cheltenham turned his head and appeared to be asleep again. But Alfred knew he was just withdrawing and coming to terms with his end; the next time this man truly fell asleep…he wouldn't be waking up. The man closest to him had already entered the final stages, and Alfred knew there was nothing more he could do…for either of them.

The American stood and turned to see Walker standing in the doorway, watching him with those curious eyes and enigmatic expression again. Alfred wiped his nose on the sleeve of his uniform as his other hand quickly pocketed the soldier's last request. "Is the…uh…m-medic on his way?" He asked, trying to sound more controlled than he felt.

"He'll be along, he's looking for someone to replace you at the moment," Walker replied. "We're leaving now."

Alfred only returned his stare before nodding and wordlessly grabbing his rifle and gear. His earlier wishes to leave had turned to coiled fears inside of him, as he realized that they were actually going to the place that had stolen the futures away from these men. He knew he couldn't think about that, that he had to focus on his job and get it done…but the weight in his pocket was a reminder.

He'd been about to walk past the Australian when the man's voice stopped him. "It's the 'three-day-fever', that's what it starts as and turns into this."

The American turned back towards Walker, who was still looking into the room Alfred had just left. "Most seem to fight it off pretty well, but once it couples with pneumonia and infection from wounds, it consumes the body and drowns it like this. Men have started taking the sickness as a precursor to inevitable death and some treat the sick like lepers." Walker inclined his head and met Alfred's eyes again. "Don't tell anyone about where you got them, or you may find yourself getting the same treatment."

Alfred turned his head away and looked out to see one of the Canadians heading towards the house from the hospital. With his relief on the way, he hiked his rifle up over his shoulder and led the way out.

* * *

Arthur had been waiting for him in the center of the square that bisected the main road out of the village. Alfred had barely reached him before the Englishman started walking and the American felt a moment of panic before he looked back at the hospital behind him.

"Wait, isn't Matthew coming?" He asked toward Arthur's retreating back.

"I've charged Lieutenant Mason with getting him and all of the men here back to Arras for medical attention and resupply," Arthur said without looking back.

Alfred paled and stopped moving. He kept looking over his shoulder at the hospital until he couldn't hear Arthur's footsteps anymore.

What he did hear was Arthur's even and direct tone of voice reminding him, "My order still stands."

Clenching his jaw, Alfred held in his protests and watched Walker heading towards them along the road. It hurt not to at least say good-bye to his brother, to at least make sure he was really okay and that he knew he was sorry for all the trouble he had caused. But he knew Arthur wouldn't wait for him, and reluctantly he turned back towards the north and followed in the Englishman's footsteps heading for the front.

To think, he had been the one criticizing Matthew for doing the same thing just three years ago.

* * *

The following evening, Alfred felt like he had been chewing on his bottom lip for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn't that he was hungry and felt like he needed to eat the damn thing, but he did feel like he had to do _something_ and he honestly didn't know what else to do. Doing nothing was not a strong suit of Alfred's, and silence on a really long walk during a highly stressful situation certainly wasn't either. His previous trek with the Canadians hadn't been the best, but at least some of them had been friendly enough towards him and Matthew had always been open for conversation…well, not always, but for the most part.

But Matthew wasn't here now and wouldn't be, no matter how much he wished it were different; it was just Walker, him and Arthur now...and none of them doing anything but walking.

He desperately needed something to keep his thoughts at bay and himself awake.

Alfred was constantly looking from the area around him, to Arthur up ahead, to the rifle he kept clenching and unclenching in his hands, and to the grey sky above. He surmised that it was most likely going to rain, but then again he remembered from enough wars that massive amounts of gunpowder discharge could make a sky seem smoky like that miles from the fighting. He sighed and his shoulders slumped, making his gear sag and reminding him of the uncomfortable weight; it wasn't helped by the fact that his footing was always uneven thanks to the countless craters in the ground.

"Jones, quit it."

Alfred blinked and snapped out of it before turning towards Walker behind him. The Australian didn't look any happier than he did, but unlike Alfred, Walker just looked more annoyed.

"Quit what?"

"Everything," the man bit back. "You fidget worse than a toddler, and if you sigh one more time I swear I'll deflate what's left of you and leave you to the crows."

Alfred rolled his eyes and turned his head away, mumbling, "There are no birds out here. Not even the freakin' ghosts want to stick around in this place."

"Talking to yourself is not an acceptable alternative, Jones."

Now Alfred was the one getting annoyed, but he stopped himself as he considered his situation. He needed something to do, someone to talk to to get his mind off of the situation and their destination. For all his show of confidence while trying to convince Arthur he was ready for the front, a large part of him was still shaken by thoughts of the British company, and especially by the memory of the soldiers in the hospice. None of the survivors had seemed able to talk and their eyes were dead…Alfred couldn't imagine what they must have experienced to have made them look like that, and he wasn't eager to find out.

"Alright then, Walker," Alfred piped up, tossing another look over his shoulder, "Since you're so jealous of me monopolizing my own time, I'll just talk to you."

The Australian didn't seem to like the sound of that, and snorted, "I don't remember extending an invitation."

"Neither do I. So, what's so important in Langemarck that has you putting up with our merry company, Mr. Walker?" Alfred fired off.

Walker kept his mouth closed and a stern expression on his face. Staring straight ahead, the man seemed to be trying to ignore Alfred, who refused to stop staring at him.

Raising an eyebrow, Alfred cheekily replied, "Is my accent throwing you off?"

Continuing to deny Alfred visual acknowledgement, Walker at least resigned himself to the fact that the American was not going to shut up until he said something. "I told you before, I've got a job to do there."

"Of what nature?"

"I'm a soldier, what do you think?"

While Alfred didn't believe for a second that the man honestly just wanted to return to the trenches, he let the matter go. The Australian wasn't fooling anyone by appearing to be a normal soldier; the fact that he knew of national avatars was more than enough of a tipoff to the contrary, but he was also very close-lipped about anything pertaining to how or why he had that knowledge. This hadn't been Alfred's first attempt to discover that information from Walker, but he had a feeling Arthur knew something about it and wasn't saying anything. As frustrating as it was…he would just have to trust that Arthur knew what he was doing and accept that Walker was just going to be a mystery to him while Arthur was his ever-secretive self.

Goddamn it, all of these secrets were exhausting him.

"Tell me about Australia then," Alfred began again, looking up at the dreary sky before turning to the Australian behind him. "What's the place you come from like?"

This topic finally earned Alfred the man's attention. Walker's expression didn't change, but his eyes grew a little more distant and the lines on his face softened. Alfred watched him curiously and decided he was more interesting than the sky.

But surprisingly enough, Walker never said a word for the longest time before he came back into focus, turned his attention back towards the way in front of him, and went back to looking like he was ignoring Alfred again. "You should visit and see for yourself sometime, though I pity any travelling companions of yours. They'll likely pitch themselves over the side of the boat on the two month trip."

"You're an ass."

"No, I'm a New South Welshman. There's a difference."

Alfred paused and missed a step as confusion became clearly painted all over his face, "I thought you were Australian?"

Nearly cracking a smile, Walker passed the American at a casual pace and never looked back. Though the man's response had bewildered the hell out of him, Alfred concentrated more on catching up than getting a reply. Up ahead, Arthur had greatly gained the lead and Alfred figured the Brit had done it on purpose to get out of earshot of their conversation. Arthur really wasn't the kind of guy who enjoyed small talk.

"You know, since we're travelling together, there's no need to be so cryptic and annoying," Alfred said, slowing down from his trot alongside Walker, and trying to ignore the fact that his balance was swaying a bit.

"Who's being cryptic? And you're the one being annoying."

"You seemed to like to talk before when you were trying to get my help with Arthur, and now you're just irritating me by being evasive," Alfred quickly countered and glared. "So, if you don't like my topics of conversation, maybe you'd like to pick one?"

As the corners of his tanned mouth turned downward, the Australian looked somewhere between livid and wary. His eyes seemed to focus more on the person in the distance than the path, and Alfred couldn't help but think he was judging just how well Arthur might be able to hear them. The American knew Arthur hadn't been happy when he discovered Walker had divulged information to him about Germany's assassination plot, or that some kind of deal had been made between them.

Finally, Walker rolled his shoulders and shifted the pack on his back. He got comfortable before saying, "Alright, so tell me Jones, ya like beer?"

The lad blinked a pair of sky-blue eyes and gawked for a moment, "Huh? …Um…well, I guess." Actually he really wasn't a fan, but after two or three mugs he noticed that he usually couldn't complain about the taste too much.

"I love the stuff. I could drink any bloke under the table any day with or without an empty stomach. I once accepted a Scotsman's challenge and drank him dry before kickin' his arse at target practice behind the pub."

Alfred listened and had to admit that sounded like a pretty impressive feat. He had seen men drink until they couldn't stand up, and others until their stomachs were retreating out of any orifice it could find for relief. Alfred had never fully understood the reason behind drinking to that point, but he had gone out enough times with brothers-in-arms, men he had worked with in his travels cross-country, and just common citizens wanting to enjoy company to understand drinking for social reasons. What Walker was describing almost sounded like drinking for sport…while odd, Alfred figured to each his own.

"So, is that what you do for fun back home?"

"Hell no! We ride kangaroos, wrestle crocodiles, and eat rattlesnakes for fun. Drinking is just how we get warmed up."

Alfred's eyes shot wide and he looked positively flabbergasted, "Wow, really!"

If the look Walker gave him hadn't made him feel foolish enough, the sound of Arthur's sigh up ahead did. The American frowned and muttered a few choice words to the Australian that only seemed to amuse the man further as he shifted his gear again.

"Don't worry, mate, I only knew one son of a bitch crazy enough to try even some of those things. They aren't common sport where I come from."

"I'm starting to like your sense of humor about as much as I like his," Alfred replied, tossing a thumb at Arthur.

Walker smirked, "Aw, don't be so mean. I assure you, mine's far better…once you get to know me, at least."

"You're kind of a hard man to get to know. So far, you've only talked about being a soldier and liking beer," Alfred said with a snort.

"Mn," The Australian considered something for a moment, then continued, "Did I mention that that contest with the Scotsman was to win a ring to give to the lady I wanted to marry?"

The American gave the Australian an astonished looked and blinked, "You got into a drinking contest for a wedding ring?"

"It was an engagement ring, not a wedding ring; but anyway, I couldn't afford it otherwise. I was only a schoolteacher at the time, so I had to get creative."

It had to be the most astounding thing he'd heard since being told he was marked for assassination by the great German Empire. Lance Corporeal Lachlan Walker, this enigmatic Australian who had somehow blackmailed Arthur Kirkland, of all people, into infiltrating their top-secret mission, rounded a Canadian unit to provide reinforcements against German Storm Troopers, and was now continuing to accompany them to Flanders for reasons unknown was really…a beer-drinking school teacher?

It made Alfred smile, "That _is_ creative. Did your efforts pay off?"

Now it was Walker's turn to smile. "I stumbled to her father's house right after that and serenaded beneath her window for almost an hour. Unfortunately it was her mother who came outside that I ended up kissing like a scandalous hound, but eventually the right woman came down and accepted my hard-earned ring."

An emotion Alfred hadn't felt in ages suddenly bubbled to the surface, and he nearly doubled over with laughter. The scenario was the most comical thing he'd imagined since starting this insane journey, and he found himself actually warming up to Walker.

"Classy," Alfred commented when he could breath. Once he was upright and decent he asked, "Did you end up tying the knot?"

The pace never changed, the sound of their footsteps never stopped, but Alfred could feel the atmosphere dampening. Walker had gone quiet and Alfred's enthusiasm began to taper with the mood. He tilted his head a little and gave the Australian a curious look, but the man would no longer meet his eyes. The sky seemed to have darkened further and Alfred felt the first cold patter of rain on his face.

"Conscription was passed, and a week before the wedding I was selected to go to a basic training camp. It didn't matter that they promised us going to the camp wasn't a one-way ticket to Europe, I knew what would happen…I'd no sooner make her my widow than my bride," the Australian finally answered and Alfred lowered his head a little. "I held her to no obligation to wait for me and don't expect her to...personally, I pray she doesn't. Men don't realize how much they've changed out here until they go back, and by then the only friend that recognizes them is the booze." He fell silent again before Alfred barely caught when he whispered under his breath, "She deserves better than that."

The rain fell in scattered waves first before becoming a constant curtain of water. Alfred stood still and watched Walker continue on behind Arthur, disappearing into the shower. Alone, Alfred listened to the rain pelt his uniform and helmet as he thought about Walker's last words.

War always changed those involved; never had a man gone to war and come back the same. It never ceased to amaze him how easy it was to forget about how a single soldier, man, and family could be affected by war when just making them one more particle in the whole of the conflict. Alfred wasn't a fool; to the commanders, men like Walker were just one more in a pool of thousands, even millions – what did his story mean in the scheme of things? What did his life with the woman he wanted to marry mean when there was a war in Europe to be fought; just like the German, Lukas Beck, whose life meant nothing before picking up a rifle and learning how to become a soldier…and just like the British man from Cheltenham whose tags he carried.

How many Union and Confederate soldiers, all Americans by blood, were lying in unmarked graves from Pennsylvania to Mississippi, forgotten by all? How many of them left would-be brides and widows behind, and how many more left whole families with children? It was more than sobering, and Alfred felt the ground beneath his feet begin to shift.

The world moved in and out of focus as the rain began to fall harder. Alfred remembered taking a step forward before a voice stopped him. He tried to blink away the fog in his mind, and slowly he realized that the voice of reason was actually Australian.

"Jones, you're about to fall in a hole."

"Huh?"

Before he knew it, the ground beneath him went from shifting to vanishing, and gravity was once again being a sneaky bastard by taking advantage of his state. He hit the bottom of the crater face-first and felt every part of him become one with it, sealed by mud.

Above, Walker stood at the edge of the crater while Arthur took his time joining him. The pair looked down at the sprawled American, now trying to push himself out of the muck, cursing like a sailor and covered in filth. Neither man said a word for several moments, until finally Walker cracked a smile.

"You know, I get the impression he's a pretty good kid when he's not face-first in the dirt."

"Proverbial and otherwise," Arthur replied, and moved to hike his rifle over his shoulder so he could cross his arms. "He has his moments."

"Should we go get him, or let him find his own way out?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave Walker a sidelong look. "If '_we_' means 'you', then by all means. I'm going to see about finding a semi-decent place to camp for the night."

Walker didn't have time to protest before Arthur turned on heel and headed off, leaving Walker at the lip of the crater and Alfred knee deep in mud, still cursing every clot of dirt he could find.

"Pommy bastard."

* * *

It was rather fortunate for Alfred that his inhuman state kept him from developing hypothermia. By the time the three had set up in a hollowed-out wall inside one of the trenches, the American only had a case of filth and foul mood. He was wide-awake now and freezing his ass off, while Walker sat opposite him carving a piece of wood he'd found. It was cold, damp and miserable down there, but at least the pelting rain and mud weren't constant worries.

The storm refused to let up; it had been going on for hours now, and while no one wanted to travel in it, no one could deny the clock was ticking. It had been Arthur who ordered for them to stop for rest, but Alfred grumbled that Arthur was a hypocrite for standing watch all night in lieu of following his own orders. Then again, Arthur wasn't the one practically sleepwalking into mortar holes, so Alfred literally had little ground to stand on.

Alfred gave an exasperated groan at the memory and thumped back against the impacted dirt wall; he was miserable and between wanting to hit something or try to go to sleep. He knew Arthur had assigned Walker to be his babysitter for the time being, and that's why they were both stuck in this hole-in-the-wall rather than rotating watch shifts. Alfred had half a mind to make a fuss and go stand watch if only to clean the mud off his uniform, but Arthur had been crystal clear in ordering him to "_shut up and stay the bloody fuck put_"…Damn it, this whole taking orders business was getting on his nerves.

"Someone once told me that if a face was kept like that for too long, it'd stay that way forever," Walker commented without looking away from his project. "You don't strike me as someone who's used to expressions of misery, anyway."

Alfred snorted at that…but eventually smiled a bit. "Arthur used to say I only had two facial expressions as a kid: overly jubilant and asleep."

Walker returned the smile and kept working on his woodcarving. "I'll bet you were just as destructive with your wardrobe then as now. You look like a swamp monster."

Rather than taking it as an insult, Alfred smiled again and had to admit that what had happened…was pretty funny. "Better mud than what happened to my last uniform," he said, rubbing his back against the wall as he noticed the slight burning sensation to his skin; he'd actually done a pretty good job at ignoring it until it was mentioned, and now it was irritating him.

And reminding him of Matthew.

He hadn't noticed that the sound of the knife scraping against the wood had ceased until then, and looked up to find Walker watching him. "Your expressions change a lot when you think. You must suck at poker."

"I can hold my own," Alfred replied, trying to smile again. It felt good to smile. "I could beat the pants off of any good 'ol boy from Carson City, any time."

Alfred didn't know when it happened, but eventually he noticed how relaxed he'd become just talking about menial things with Walker. Their environment was less than ideal, but it didn't seem to stop either of them from having the most normal conversation Alfred had probably had since landing in Europe. The more they talked, the more Alfred grew to like the Australian.

The man initially came off rougher than most, but Alfred got the sense that he was a pretty good guy when he wasn't armed and in mission mode. Though the Australian never laughed, he did smile and gave comical feedback to whatever story Alfred told. The American beamed at the discovery that the pair had a lot in common, such as horse handling, trains (when they weren't exploding), and Walker seemed to really enjoy experimenting with carpentry as much as Alfred enjoyed inventions in general.

Alfred had always been fascinated by new innovations and technologies, and he excitedly told the Australian about all of the amazing things he'd seen his people build back home. While Walker didn't say much he did listen with interest, and Alfred really appreciated that.

Eventually though, as a comfortable silence fell between them as the rain continued to fall, Alfred's expression became a bit timid…but curious. "Hey, Walker…could you answer something for me?"

"Hm?" The man inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"…Why were you outside of Arras that day…when you found Arthur and me?" He asked, hoping the man might let him in on a little more of what he was doing here instead of what he'd done back home. "You're not a medic, and I doubt you were on staff with the hospital. So, how'd you end up there?"

The brunet officer turned his head to the side, looking out into the rain falling into the trench, and didn't speak for a while. He'd stopped working on the wood piece in his hands and Alfred continued to look between it and the man's face. Finally, Walker sat back from his hunched over position and closed his eyes. For the first time since they'd met, the human looked more tired than he did.

"I've been to Flanders and fought in Ypres," he began, his tone more drained than his expression. "I was part of an offensive strike that was supposed to push the Germans from an area known as Menin, and retake ground and a major supply line. The British have a tactic called 'bite and hold'; it's when you use heavy artillery and cover fire to get troops close enough to an enemy's defense position, and when enemies jump to return fire you take them on at close range and hold the site you win. I was with my detail when the order came through that our unit was going in for the bite…it was pretty suicidal considering how tightly the Germans were hunkered down, but where my detail went, I went…"

Walker trailed off and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Alfred wanted to keep him going and hear more, but didn't want to spur the man on if it caused him anguish to remember. Eventually, Walker gave a closed-lipped sigh and looked back down at the knife and wood in his hands.

"We were successful, at least as much as I remember. I was going hands on with a soldier in a pillbox before someone bayonetted me from behind and overtook me. Long story short, I lost my detail and woke up on a stretcher getting shipped back to Arras; beyond that, I don't know what happened."

Alfred found himself biting his lower lip again as he thought about it and tried to piece things together himself. "So…you made it to Arras, were treated…and, what, volunteered to help?"

Walker gave a small smirk at that and shook his head, "Not exactly…There was a pompous British major there running the show, and when I kept trying to get passage back to Flanders he kept blocking me and ordering me to '_see to the needs of the people there_'. The truth was, he didn't like or trust me. I had shown up in Arras alone, with no paperwork on how I was injured or who to report back to, and I wouldn't tell him a thing. It didn't help that the jackass was one of those nationalist pommys who didn't like people from my country, so I was really out of luck," he said, and then nodded in Alfred's direction. "Then you two came along. I had been about to risk desertion to get back north until I saw your friend and knew who he was, and then figuring you out wasn't too hard. The funny thing was not having had a clue about Williams until I overheard your conversation that morning in the basement ward. I was down there trying to find an opportunity to convince you to head to Belgium with me when a nurse found me and started questioning me hard. By the time I managed to give her the slip, you and your brother were gone, which left me with only the pommy."

The blond cringed at the memory of how stupid he'd been to so candidly talk about the mission in an unsecure environment like that, but his cringe turned to anger at the mention of the nurse. The woman had been very attentive and kind, but now knowing what she has really been only made Alfred more furious with himself for leaving Arthur. He knew that he wouldn't live it down for a long time, if ever…but there was nothing he could do about it now, other than accomplish the mission and get him and Arthur back without any more near-death experiences.

"…You're doing it again."

Alfred blinked and looked back up at the Australian, not having realized he'd been glaring intensely at the floor. "What?"

"If you don't learn to hide your thoughts and feelings, mate, you won't last long out here or in the political arena ya gotta go home to," he said and gave a strangely bitter smile. "Because, eventually, this will all be over for you and you will go home…use that to your advantage."

As Alfred watched Walker's mask of indifference come down, he thought about the Canadians who had died in the ambush and the British soldiers of the reinforcement party who perished en route to them. He even thought about the Germans from the village and the boy, Lukas, who had guided him to Arras after Arthur had killed every member of his unit. Countless soldiers of every nationality had already died in this war, and while he might end up dead himself, he wouldn't find his final resting place in the soils Europe. He understood that Walker was trying to get him to see this as a comfort, but in all honesty he couldn't. He hated all the death he saw all around him now as he did in his past wars at home. Strangely enough, he had had less fear charging the fields then than he did now…and besides being a continent away from home; the only thing that had changed was the knowledge that death for him wasn't final.

So, then…what was it? What about him would change when he died and came back to life? He couldn't help but think such immortality had a cost, even for a nation like him.

"You should sleep."

"Huh?" Alfred queried absently.

Walker had taken his blanket off his pack and wrapped it around himself, lying back in a more comfortable position against the wall as he lowered his helmet over his eyes. "You have maybe an hour at best. I doubt the pommy will take standin' in the rain much beyond that."

Frowning, Alfred shivered and slumped back against his own side of the burrow, crossing his arms tightly as he sprawled his legs out before they cramped. Walker couldn't have been able to see it, but Alfred knew he was smirking under that helmet.

"Regret giving up your blanket yet?"

"Nope."

The Australian just smiled.

* * *

The rain refused to let up that night or the following day. The world around them looked as though it hadn't seen the sun in years, and the closer the group got to Flanders the greyer the world became.

The smell of spent gunpowder, defiled earth and decay was becoming ever stronger, as were the number of bodies littering the ground. Mortar craters were like unfinished graves, and abandoned trenches became canyons in the terrain. Conversation had gradually ceased as the distant sounds of war become more than mere echoes, and soon only the sounds of their footsteps accompanied the staccato of constant gun and artillery fire.

By the fall of the third night, midair explosions were all that lit up the sky; and Alfred stood, just watching, over the last ridge separating them from the thousands of soldiers manning the front in the newly formed trenches beyond. The American could see the battle in the distance and felt a sense of finality come over him. All of these months had led to this place; he'd failed in his mission once already, and this was his last chance to set things right.

It was strange…but thinking about that and seeing the night sky so brilliant with cannon fire, he wasn't as afraid as he'd been during the nights leading up to this. He wasn't worried about screwing up any more.

He was finishing what he and Arthur had started, one way or another.

He didn't jump this time when his British colleague stepped up beside him, rifle in hand, eyes moving from the scene below to Alfred's face. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he began at length, then nudged his own rifle off his shoulder and began heading down the ridge. "Let's get this over with."

Alfred never realized that he had descended alone, but for the silence that took the place of his companion. Unlike Alfred, who only had eyes for the trenches now, Arthur couldn't take his eyes off of Alfred.

His commander had charged him with the task of getting them here, and for better or worse the Englishman had now done so. He had also been charged with turning Alfred into the kind of soldier he needed to be to survive this modern war…but he couldn't say he had.

If anything, Alfred had done more on his own since the start of this journey than Arthur could have ever done for him. Feeling the weight of the rifle in his hands, Arthur felt his fatigue return as his injuries from the village throbbed once more. This war had aged him, but it was helping Alfred grow…

Maybe he should have been asking himself if he was the one ready for this. Could this old man take the prospect of losing the boy he'd been watching grow up before his very eyes for centuries…?

* * *

"_Ready, Alfred?"_

"_I'm ready, dad," the boy chimed back with a laugh. "How many more times must you ask?"_

'_A thousand, and then a thousand more after that,' Arthur thought to himself as he hid his apprehension behind his mask again. Alfred called him dad, but he was a teacher right now, an instructor giving a lesson on something with the deadliest sort of potential. Alfred's excitement was over the idea that learning to use the musket in the Englishman's hands was going to be his first step into manhood, but Arthur's fear was that it would be his first step away from him._

_It had happened before. Once he had learned to defend himself when he'd been just a little older than Alfred, he had rebelled against the man who had owned him. Regardless of how much kinder he had been toward Alfred than his own first imperial ruler had been towards him, would his son not feel the same yearning desire for autonomy that he had once felt?_

"_Dad, does black powder go bad? I fear we are about to test it," Alfred's light-hearted voice came, rousing the Englishman from his thoughts._

_Arthur gripped the musket tighter and looked down at the golden blond-haired lad beaming up at him with his ever-eager eyes. He had always seen such potential in Alfred and knew he was destined to be something great someday…but deep down, he would never deny that he didn't hope his son remained loyal and allied to him forever. His empire had so many enemies in this world, all of who would descend upon these lands and his boy if ever they were given the chance…Alfred needed a way to protect himself because of the reality that his guardian couldn't be his sword and shield forever._

_At the risk of giving him the power to rebel, Arthur needed to give him the power to defend himself…because he loved him too much to see any kind of future without him._

"_Alright, Alfred…I'm ready, too."_

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Welcome back everyone, and my sincerest apologies for the wait. T_T I cannot stress enough how sorry I am for how long this took to get finished and posted, however its been a tough semester and I've only now had time to work this project. I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and though I've already begun work on chapter 20 I also hope to have more shorts posted in the mean time. I've received a few more fic-request ideas since my last posting, but a lot of them would contain spoilers at this stage of "Never Your Hero" (as most are tied to it), so I'll sadly have to hold off on those (I'M SORRY!). But I will leave the request box open for those still wanting to submit, so please feel free to send ^_^. In other news, thank you SO much for all of the reviews, subscriptions and fanart since the last chapter! D8 Oh my GOSH, you guys; you all completely blow me away! **I'm really going to promote these fanarts especially: if you haven't seen them already PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINKS ON MY FRONT PAGE!** :'D You will not regret it; all of them are absolutely BEAUTIFUL! 3 3 3 3

As always, I have got to thank my wonderful and amazing Beta editor, who without her help this chapter would not have been posted as you see it here (the raw for this…trust me, yikes). So to you, my dear lady, who battled a terrible work schedule and illness to edit this for me – T_T THANK YOU SO MUCH! 3

Alrighty, let's get to some notes! Oh, heavens, can you believe I actually missed these? XD

-At this stage of the war neither the Allies or the Central Powers were doing well, but the Central Powers had one thing going for them: victory on the eastern front (_thank you_ **Melody-chii** _for pointing out my front error_). By this time, Russia had all but completely withdrawn in an official capacity, following the Red October/beginning of the Russian Revolution. The new government taking power did not support the war, and by this time the majority of the soldiers who had had enough of enduring their conditions (starvation, lack of food, proper care, clothing, weapons, ECT) favored any change that would bring them home. With Russia's withdraw (which wasn't made official until March the following year), this left the Triple Entente crippled and the Central Powers all but completely free to focus on the eastern front where French, British, and Dominion troops were struggling. The fear among leaders and soldiers was that the success in the west would bring a moral boost and more reinforcements to the Germans holding the salient. The Americans entering had helped bring fresh troops and supplies, but with most Americans still untested in the trenches and environment facing soldiers on the front. With the American entrance considered to be a wild card this early in the game, several plans were beginning to form on the German side to really throw the hammer at the Allied lines before American troops became combat operational.

-The "three-day-fever", a.k.a. the early stage of the 1918 Influenza epidemic that wiped out more than double the number of those who died in WWI. While it wasn't a more commonly noted until the spring of 1918, there were a few isolated cases of milder influenza in late 1917 (the current time period for the story). Most soldiers who contracted the virus actually recovered from it fairly well, but those who already had compromised immune systems suffered greatly as it often made underlying problems worse. As can be imagined, living conditions for soldiers in the trenches (which we'll get into a LOT more in the next chapter) were poor as all get out; the rampant malnutrition, not enough protection from the elements, soldiers standing in stagnant water for hours on end, and living in close proximity to the sick and the dead made for a breeding ground of sickness. The soldiers described in the hospice are two examples of this, and sadly their fates were similar to that of many. (Just because I know I'm going to hear it, "trench fever" is not the same virus as influenza or "three-day-fever". The feces of parasites caused the dreaded "trench fever", while the other really is a strain of influenza. :) )

~_Interesting Fact: The Influenza Epidemic of 1918 actually went by several names all over the world, including the "Spanish Influenza" in America and Britain, and "French Flu" in Spain. The more popular of the two (and what most people world wide know it as) is the Spanish Flu, but truthfully the virus didn't start in Spain at all…_; its actually American. Spain was neutral during WWI, but enough soldiers and civilians during and after the war made it into the country and passed the virus along. After that, Spain was one of the first to start publically releasing mortality statistics in conjunction with the virus, which in turn had the world associating the epidemic with Spain. Funny how that works, no?_~

-Weather Report: During WWI, France saw unseasonably wet years all throughout, but particularly during 1917. Yes, we can all expect a lot of dreary days ahead in this fic, and as much as I love using the weather to set the mood, please know that going off the actual weather reports from this time period is much more important to me. o_o Seriously, I mean like…OMG, France, your weather was the most depressing thing EVER in 1917! D8

-Walker mentions that he's not an ass (Hah) but a "New South Welshman". :) Australia was still called Australia in this time period, but the state (_thank you_ **Alykon** _for correcting me_ :) ) where Walker is from is called New South Wales. This would be the southeastern portion of the country where a good chunk of Australia's population is situated. To my Australian audience, I hope I do you all proud with my Aussie fellow here. *sweating bullets* _ Bare with me, and feel free to correct me on anything Australian that I royally flub up anytime!

-Carson City is the capital city of Nevada, U.S.A. In terms of the old west, Carson City was a card-shark and cowboy paradise – like an old town Vegas. :)

-Conscription is pretty much a draft – where abled bodied men are required to reqister with the government with the potential to be selected to be called to service in the military. From what I've read, in Australia conscription was against the law until October of 1916, at which time those selected were sent to basic training camps under the impression that they could "potentially" have to serve in the war happening in Europe. **_I had been under the impression from what I had read that at this point Australia was behind in its commitment of troops to the war, and nearly everyone who was selected and finished the training process was sent to the trenches. However, I thank_ **Alykon **_for correcting me on my Australian history in that the act in 1916 and one other a year later were unpopular referendums the majority of Australian states voted against. When conscription in Australia was allowed in 1903, it had been so for service within Australia only (this was really a mind-blowing concept to me as an American; I'll be honest, we haven't had a national only draft before or since the Civil War D:)._** Conscriptions happened in several countries during this time including Britain, France, America, Canada, and even Germany; as you can imagine…it wasn't exactly popular no matter where it was passed there either.

-The battle Walker describes to Alfred is known as "The Battle of Menin Road". During the Third Battle of Ypres one of the main veins into Flanders held by the Germans was known as the Menin, and over the course of 2-3 months the Allies battled for it and surrounding areas like hell. Two of the main Dominions making the push were the Australian and New Zealand divisions, aiding in engineering and infantry capacities to keep communication lines open and oust German soldiers from defensive positions. During the battle, Walker was in a division of Australian infantrymen who were used as the advancing troops during the "bite and hold" tactic he mentioned. The "pillboxes" were concrete shelters, usually only large enough to hold one to a handful of troops at a time, scattered over the German defensive line where German soldiers hunkered down to hold out against Allied artillery bombardments, and then emerge from to return machinegun fire at troops funneled towards them by rows of barbed wire set up before the assaults. The majority of casualties that took place for advancing troops during the "bite and holds" was during this crossing where they weren't able to get across No-Man's Land fast enough before they were cut down when their cover fire ended. However when they were successful, Allied troops had throw grenades, jump into the trenches and try to overtake soldiers in the pillboxes before assessing their damages and holding the line with whatever resources they had left. This was how ground was gained for the most part in the battles of Flanders and throughout many places in WWI. This is also how so many lives were lost. We'll be seeing more of this tactic and more of Walker's story later. :)

-A note for a recurring theme that's been mentioned throughout the fic, but more so in this chapter as its really hit on twice. There was a lot of unfortunate tension between leaders and soldiers of different nationalities throughout WWI, and while the majority of it was between the British and the French (surprise), a lot of inter-Dominion tension happened too. Many Dominion soldiers were reportedly not treated as equals among the British ranks and many Dominion soldiers had understandably poor views on those of the British elite who mistreated them. By the time the Americans got there, things went from nail-bitingly bad, scuffles here and there, to "throw down the fisticuffs and get it on". Much of the anti-European sentiment in America (resentment against involvement in WWI, British involvement in the Civil War, ECT) fed into the already stressful situations encountered on the western front, which sparked conflicts among allies. Its unfortunate to say that a great deal of leaders and soldiers on the same side did not get along, but cooperation was still with the greater majority than not. This issue will be revisited later, but it deserved the note now.

That's all for now, and I thank you all again for reading. This project is actually coming up on its one-year mark in two weeks…and I can scarcely believe it. T~T This really has been one hell of a ride, and while the most intense action and moments are still to come, we are still nearing the end and I must admit that its bitter sweet for me. :) Here's to getting the next chapter out swiftly and getting this roller coaster back up to speed! My best to you all!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_

_**P.S.**_

_I have made a few edits to this chapter and will be so long as there are mistakes in my international history. I really work hard to represent each of the countries in this fic to the best of my ability and do a lot of research before posting each of these chapters. That said, I know perfection will never be had and I would rather have constructive feedback to edit my errors than leave the story with egregious misrepresentations people of other nations are very proud of. This chapter in particular had a lot of Australian history, something I'm not very familiar with and I expect errors. :) Thank you to my audience for your patience and understanding with this, and a special thanks to my Australian reader and those who wrote in on corrections. I hope these edits are satisfactory!_


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XX

_"The Hardest Mile Walked"_

It was like reliving the first eve defending Fort McHenry. The blackened sky was ablaze with a brilliant wash of bursting lights, accompanied by staccato sounds of smaller explosions that illuminated the furiously moving ground below. Like the sea splashing and cresting beneath hails of cannon fire, the earth was forever changing form as artillery shells impacted with its surface.

Rifles volleyed like arguing rivals before a backdrop of barking commanders, soldiers calling to one another down the lines, and the sounds of tools working away at the trenches to keep them growing and holding.

Each move forward penetrated deeper into the stench emanating from the cluster of working and dead bodies. Dirt, sweat, and bodily waste – it was all an overpowering cocktail trying desperately to be covered up by chemicals that burned like acid when breathed in. The cold winter night was a distant memory, as the heat and steam rising from the trenches billowed around ridges leading into the pits. The way men moved in and out of the fog was like some macabre Victorian nightmare.

Alfred had led the way in, but felt himself wavering as his senses were overwhelmed by it all. There were too many people moving about in a flurry of motion, making it difficult to focus on any figures appearing and vanishing like ghosts in the pandemonium. Between the noises making it hard to think and the stench making him gag, Alfred was having difficulty keeping a grip on his rifle and his stomach contents. Nothing seemed able to stop the invasion of the experience; his skin and eyes burned, his nose and mouth were saturated with the thick odor, and his ears were ringing from the chaos. The air had a grainy texture to it, almost like sandpaper as the heavy dirt particles and gunpowder in it rubbed against his face and all the way down into his lungs. The deeper he journeyed into it, the more he felt he was becoming part of the unnatural environment.

He had just raised his hand to cover his mouth before someone grasped his shoulder to stop him from moving. "I'd advise you watch your step."

Alfred turned to find Arthur behind him, and following his eyes he found a slick ramp of mud leading down into a deep hole filled with discarded artillery shells. It was a mass grave of shrapnel and hollowed metal, full of thousands of thigh-sized casings, and among them no shortage of blood-splattered debris pieces… And the smell of it burning…

Alfred promptly hunched over and vomited.

The Brit held him steady, keeping a hand tightly fisted in the back of his uniform from behind as the lad wretched and tried to expel the foreign assault on his senses. Arthur waited patiently, knowing it was best to let him get this over with now before they got any deeper into the fouler parts of this world.

Walker approached him, giving a quick glance down at Alfred before shaking his head and leaning in towards Arthur. "You gonna stay with him?"

Arthur was still focused on Alfred, who had fallen to his knees and was now dry heaving, and nodded. "I assume you will be off to attend to your own duties."

The Australian grunted in affirmation. "…If our paths cross I'll keep an eye out for him, but my main priority still stands," he replied, giving Alfred one last look before turning on his heel. "Good luck; you'll need it."

The Englishman didn't respond. Luck was something even prayers would not bring him, and therefore he held no such hope.

After a few minutes Alfred's stomach seemed to give him peace enough to stand, and Arthur helped ground him while the lad's body shook. The young man looked embarrassed, uttering apologizes as he wiped his mouth and tried to avoid eye contact. The Englishman only gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, keeping his grip there, as he wasn't completely satisfied with Alfred's balance yet.

"It happens to everyone, Alfred," he said in a sincere tone, "just try not to think about it." With his hand still on his shoulder, Arthur redirected his American charge away from the pit and the more occupied areas of the trenches.

The younger nation had a hard time resenting the older man's aid or direction, taking it without protest. The first-time experience of this new environment was still overpowering him, and as he was trying to deal with the sensory assault Arthur became his eyes and ears, guiding him safely through the haze. The Brit navigated him around the piles of sandbags, and under dirt cast off from shovels constantly working away in the endless earthen channels; around the stacks of crates soldiers were breaking apart to unload supplies, and as far from the ditches where men on burial duty were carrying out their solemn tasks.

Alfred was so absorbed taking it all in that he hadn't realized where Arthur was directing him until a rising wall of dirt obscured his vision, lining a path they were presently descending. Looking straight ahead, Alfred found a low-ceilinged tent nestled under a sheltered area of planks and earth beneath the trench wall. The structure was made of olive canvas and mesh, similar to what the Americans used, but looked only partially put together in its haste. The tent flap acting as an entrance was down, but as they approached Arthur didn't act as though he needed an invitation and without hesitation pushed Alfred inside.

The interior of the tent was dim and illuminated only by the glow of two lamps on a table in the center of the area. Arthur left the American to his own devices as he dropped his heavy gear near the entrance and made his way towards the table, quickly becoming engrossed in the seemingly endless charts scattered about, while Alfred remained at the perimeter and scanned his surroundings.

It was then that he noticed the Australian was missing, and felt alarm rising. "Arthur, where's Walker?"

"He's been in the trenches before and knows his way around; we needn't worry about him," the Englishman replied, never removing his attention from the maps and giving no further indication he would be elaborating on the Dominion soldier's whereabouts.

As frustrating as it was to want to press for more information or run back out into the trenches to look for the Australian, Alfred looked nervously back out at the tent entrance before averting his gaze. Once again, for all his gusto he had no desire to return to the world outside any sooner than he had to…besides, he had no idea how to navigate the madness out there. He'd have a better chance of getting lost than finding a lone Australian in that mess.

At least here he still had Arthur, which he could confidently say he felt a lot better about now than he did upon first arriving in Europe.

Leaving his place near the threshold, Alfred walked over to glance over his British companion's shoulder, eyeing and trying to decipher the contents that had become the sole focus of the man's attention. The number of sheet-sized and poster-sized topographies and physical maps made a virtual tablecloth over the large war table. Hastily drawn and redrawn marks were sketched and hashed over several of them in all sorts of colors, and Alfred couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. When he looked up, he found Arthur watching his face carefully and his stomach twitched.

Feeling like he was back in another lesson, Alfred felt his nervousness rise before asking, "So, which color are we?"

The side of Arthur's mouth quirked at that, and he pulled one of the maps from the pile closer, spread it flat and ran his hand along a dotted blue line. "This is the Allied front in blue; it's not solid because it's not a definitive hold," Arthur began, and then slid his finger just a bit to the northeast behind the snakelike red line opposing the blue, and tapped on a large black dot. "This is Passchendaele, the village we've been striving to reclaim since this phase of the offensive began in what looks like the end of July."

Alfred looked at the dates scrawled on the steadily advancing lines indicating the Allied front moving ever closer to the target village, and knew that was how Arthur was estimating his timeline. Since neither of them had seen a calendar since leaving Paris towards the end of August, it had been nigh impossible to keep track of just how long they had been traveling. The realization of that made Alfred take a mental step back, as it dawned on him just how long it had been since they began their journey together…

The date scrawled next to the black dot of Passchendaele said November. God…had it really been three months?

"From what I've gathered," Arthur continued, pulling Alfred's attention back to the maps as Arthur moved his finger to an orange section within the blue. "These are Dominion troops, and there's going to be another advance made in a few days' time where the British troops will be en massing to relieve this company and support the remaining. My guess is these are more than likely Canadian..."

Alfred raised an eyebrow and looked more intently at the map, "How do you figure?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment, and then slid his hand away, as he used it to support himself on the edge of the table. He seemed divided about something, but eventually he released a close-lipped sigh and replied at length, "Because Matthew's unit was supposed to reinforce them."

This made Alfred pause before he vigorously shook his head and turned on Arthur. "No he wasn't! Matthew told me in Arras he was heading for an area further south to hold – it's what he said when I was trying to convince him to bring me here and he refused."

Alfred was adamant on the point, but Arthur's expression began to make that confidence falter when the American detected a trace of pity in the Englishman's green eyes. Silence stretched between them for a while before Alfred's shoulders sagged and his gaze fell.

"…He lied about that…didn't he?"

Arthur was quite before drawing in a breath to speak…but his words failed him. He wanted to reassure Alfred that Matthew had only done it because he cared and just wanted to protect him, but it never progressed beyond thought and he was left looking at Alfred's distraught face in silence.

A terrible heaviness settled inside Alfred's body, and what didn't feel constricted from the wash of anger felt hollow from a combination of sadness and shame. Everyone seemed to be protecting him, treating him with kid gloves because they didn't trust him or his ability to perform. His own commander hadn't believed he was capable of assassinating Germany on his own, and the man sent with him didn't trust him to handle it any more than the higher ups. Even Francis had protested before he had left Paris, and when he had arrived in Arras his own brother had said it was madness. While he had at least told his brother he didn't blame him for his worry…he still felt the hurt that accompanied the extent of how little his twin's confidence in him was.

Matthew had been bound for the fiercest area of the front and lied about it to deter him from following. Now, he was here…and Matthew, along with the men meant to relieve the currently entrenched companies, was not.

His guilt had so consumed him that he never noticed Arthur reaching for him, or how his hand failed to connect just as his unspoken words had.

The sound of a crack and a wash of cold air made both nations turn to see two men entering the tent. While Alfred looked as surprised to see the strangers as they obviously were to see him, Arthur went absolutely ridged. Alfred wondered if Arthur knew them, because he certainly didn't; both of these guys were British.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The younger of the two humans shouted, hand already going to halfway draw his gun.

Suddenly there was a whip-like motion out of the corner of his eye and Alfred turned, astonished, to find Arthur with his own gun in hand and pointed at the now-frozen soldier gaping at him.

Arthur's eyes were narrowed and his voice was low with that authoritative presence that made even his peers quiver. "Hastily escalating the situation with the use of a weapon without knowledge of who you're pointing it at is a foolish thing to do. You're a piss-poor tactician...drop the gun."

No one moved, not even Alfred, who was on Arthur's side. He hadn't expected Arthur to become so defensive at the drop of a hat, but he guessed he had every right to be considering the other guy had decided to pick a fight first. While he wasn't really one to talk about the genius behind it, Alfred could soundly say from experience that personally picking fights with Arthur generally didn't turn out well.

"That he may be, Lord Kirkland, but since the young man's safety is my responsibility, and I'm rather fond of the tidiness of my tent, I'd prefer you both put your sidearms away, gentlemen."

The second man who had addressed Arthur was an older gentleman with a snowy, walrus-like mustache centered on his slightly chubby face beneath rosy cheeks and a pair of hazel-tinted eyes. He wore a British officer's uniform, complete with field trimmings meant to replace the more ceremonial ones worn in formal settings. His voice was casually paced and deep, laced with that particular British officer-like tone that naturally said he owned the place and damn well knew it.

As if the man's hidden order was the excuse he needed to withdraw from his contest with Arthur, the younger officer quickly holstered his gun and stiffly fell into attention, as Arthur finally lowered his. Though, Alfred did note, Arthur only kept the weapon at his side and didn't holster it.

"Field Marshal Plumer…" Arthur began, dipping his head a bit in a respectful nod. "I'm glad to see you're well, sir."

"The same to you, Lord Kirkland," the older gentleman returned, along with a nod of respect. "You certainly were not what I was expecting upon my arrival to this side of the front. Rumor had it that you'd been recalled to Paris on assignment and hadn't been returned to commission since."

Arthur didn't seem too pleased to hear that, but eyed the man beside the Field Marshal and nodded. That explanation was the best to stick by until unnecessary parties were no longer present.

Alfred, hating to be forgotten, stepped forward alongside Arthur and gave the Englishman a light nudge in passing. "Since I'm the odd man out here, could I trouble you for some introductions?" He asked, still eyeing the two humans and upon meeting the eyes of the younger one…he decided the two of them were likely not going to get along.

"Forgive me," Arthur said listlessly, and motioned to his companion with his hand. "Sir, this is Mr. Alfred Jones, representative for the United States."

Alfred frowned and felt as if Arthur had downplayed that a little much – especially addressing him simply as "mister" rather than by the human rank he'd been assigned for this war. Every time he served among human soldiers his commanders had given him a human rank to use to aid in blending in with troops. Few actually knew who and what he really was…but a surprising number seemed to know Arthur, whether personally or by reputation. Then again, Arthur was a lot more involved with his government and officials than he'd been with Washington these past few decades…

"America's representative," Plumer said with a curious tone, giving Alfred a look-over, then hummed and quirked a smile. "I am Field Marshal Herbert Plumer, commander of the BEF Second Army and Dominion troops here on the western front," he said and tossed his head in the direction of the other human with him. "This is Lieutenant Percy Ward, Field Marshall Haig's appointed overzealous babysitter whilst I run about the battlegrounds, so do mind what you say around him."

The gentleman in question only gave an annoyed twitch of his facial expression as he remained at attention. Alfred blinked and raised an eyebrow, while Arthur only frowned, not seeming all that surprised. Still, why on earth would the high commander send someone to babysit the man he put in charge?

"So, gentlemen," Plumer began again as he casually filed forward, withdrawing a pipe from his coat pocket as he rounded the avatars and came to the table. "Since I doubt you're studying these maps to find the best escape route for desertion, I'll assume you were familiarizing yourselves with our situation here. Tell me…what do you think?"

While Arthur maintained eye contact with the old man, Alfred was moving his eyes back and forth between the maps on the table, and the lieutenant still standing near the tent's mouth. Alfred didn't like babysitters period, especially ones who loved to tattle on their charges. Though he didn't know if the lieutenant was like that or not, he didn't want to chance anything in front of him that might make it back to Paris as bad news. That said, he wasn't sure what to make of answering the Field Marshal's question; to be honest, it looked like everybody on the Allied side was pretty much screwed six ways till Sunday.

Well, might as well be honest…and make sure that the bad news that inevitably returned to Haig wasn't about Arthur or his brother.

"I think your current plan is sound and royally fucked, sir."

Arthur looked like he'd been struck with a cattle prod and the lieutenant by the door squawked in sheer revulsion; but the Field Marshal just raised his eyebrows and looked attentively at Alfred. The American met his gaze and figured that he might as well just come clean…since it was bound to get out anyway.

"Really?…Do tell, Mr. Jones."

Alfred's eyes traveled back to the orange lines waiting for fellow orange reinforcement, and felt his heart sink. "The Canadian unit your boys behind this ridge are counting on isn't coming, and I take responsibility for that."

"Alfred – " Arthur began in warning, but was cut off when the American glared determinedly at him. He only briefly saw Arthur's threatening, and underlying frantic, look before turning his back on the Englishman to face the Field Marshal

again.

"It isn't their fault they won't be here. They aren't committing any dereliction of duty, and I swear to you that they would have finished the march all the way here if we hadn't been attacked en route," Alfred continued intently, keeping Plumer's eyes on him as if that would transfer all the blame. Arthur had given the order that sent the men back, but they had been targeted because of him. He wasn't about to let Arthur take the heat for doing what he now knew – selfishly, for the sake of his brother – was the right thing to do. "There were too many wounded to move forward, so they were sent back to Arras. I'm sorry things turned out as they did, but for the sake of the survivors, I don't regret the decision…only that there won't be a unit to relieve yours during the next offensive."

The entire tent fell into heavy silence; but for the continued sounds of war in the distance beyond the canvas walls, the atmosphere remained tangibly mute. Alfred finally swallowed when Plumer raised his pipe between his lips, struck a match and lit the tobacco inside. His enigmatic expression left no clues as to what he was thinking, but after a few inhales he stared Alfred down and seemed to be tearing him to nothing with his gaze.

It was a struggle for Arthur to remain rooted to the spot and not guard Alfred from it.

"A man willing to take responsibility for his actions can only be respected for it if he intends to accept the consequences," he began, taking another draw on the pipe before biting down and placing his hands behind his back. Dark hazel eyes locked with sky-blue, but it was Arthur who felt his stomach twisting. "Are you prepared to accept them?"

There was no hesitation. "Yes."

"Good. Because tomorrow my men will have relief when the British Second Army marches out to relieve the Fifth and what it can of the Canadian divisions, and you're going with them."

Alfred's eyes widened a fraction in surprise, but said nothing as the thought that he was really being ordered into the trenches, _directly_, was actually happening.

And Arthur wasn't having it.

"Sir!" Arthur barked out, practically shoving Alfred aside as he finally followed his original instinct to step in front of the other and effectively block the American from the human's sight. "I respectfully request a moment alone with you before you issue such orders."

Plumer seemed curious for the fraction of a moment it took to realize Arthur Kirkland seemed to be protecting his American counterpart, before the older man's eyes narrowed and his new object of focus became the furious green-eyed Englishman before him.

"Because I hold you in such high esteem, Lord Kirkland, I'll grant you that private audience on that and that alone," he said, removing his pipe and keeping his gaze on Arthur, and began issuing orders to the absolutely thunderstruck lieutenant at the tent's entrance. "Lieutenant Ward, please take Mr. Jones and Lord Kirkland's equipment to one of the barrack tents; Mr. Jones, especially, will need some rest before tomorrow."

"S-sir – !" It was evident there was every indication to protest in his voice, but it was quickly bottled up as it was clear Plumer had already dismissed him.

Frustrated and clenching his fists, Ward whipped a stern expression to Alfred, his body language bleeding poison as he clipped a sharp issuance for the American to follow immediately while grabbing the gear Arthur had left by the edge of the tent. Alfred only returned the malicious expression before Arthur made a quick gesture for him to leave…but it was the follow-up reassurance that he would be along soon that finally got the American moving and out of the tent.

He hated leaving Arthur behind, especially when he knew Arthur was going to try to unring the bell he'd just rung, but Alfred had a feeling that what was done was done. Plumer just struck him as the kind of guy who didn't give orders on a whim; he meant them, and he meant for him to be going to the front with the British reinforcements tomorrow.

The long walk from the command tent to wherever the lieutenant was leading him was nothing more than a fog, as Alfred's mind kept circulating the Field Marshal's words in his head.

He'd be taking Matthew's place tomorrow…he just wouldn't have any backup when he did.

* * *

"Let's be frank with each other, sir: I made the mistake of letting Haig get away with forcing my hand in bringing Alfred this far. I won't let it happen again," Arthur said, countering Plumer's retort about conduct before subordinates in their presence. "We're here to accomplish our mission and then I'm getting him the hell out of here."

The old man tightened his hand around the pipe in his hand, making him look even more severe. "If this was such a conflict of interests, Lord Kirkland, then why send him on this insane mission at all? For God's sake, why did you not send him back with the Canadian unit if you had such little faith? I'm wise enough to know the lad had nothing to do with ordering them back, and it's clear by the way he acts around you that you hold some sort of superior sway over him. If you are so concerned about a _soldier_ fighting in a war, then why did you pass up the opportunities to spare him?"

Arthur's temper was getting the better of him; he was treacherously close to losing the only reserve he had that held his semi-professional appearance in place.

He had always respected Plumer; he was a soldier's soldier, a rare infantryman who'd worked his way up in the ranks through sheer talent and drive, and by being the man men wanted to serve under rather than were forced to. While most in the British high command regarded him only with suspicion and often doubted his unusual methods, Plumer had found favor with Arthur and earned his recommendation for the job he now had. While Plumer was never a lover or frequent player of the political game, he was brilliant on the field where it mattered in a war. It was this Arthur tried to keep at the forefront of his mind to maintain his composure.

Much to his dismay, the thoughts were locked in battle with the memory of Alfred's bloodied and broken body after the Germans had destroyed their train en route to Belgium – and the memory was winning.

"If you know Alfred had nothing to do with Matthew Williams's unit not being here, then would it not be better to rescind your order and not punish an innocent man?" Arthur retorted, ignoring all else of Plumer's words.

"Ah, so punishment belongs to the humans, your citizens with only one life to live, rather than the American avatar so willing to admit to condemning yet more of your subjects by allowing emotions to potentially change the course of war?" The man asked with an inquisitive tone, making Arthur's fists clench. "I thought it was the boy who needed to learn the gravity of this situation…but now you have given me pause to wonder if it is you, my lord, who needs things put into perspective."

The air would have frosted for the fury rising within him. "How dare you."

"No, Arthur Kirkland – how dare _you_."

Both men stood their ground, and for the second time since the start of this war, Arthur found himself feeling helpless before the words of a human. How had things come to this so quickly? He could count on one hand the number of times over his long life he'd been at the mercy of humans without them raising an instrument of death to him. Yet here he stood, once again, groundless but for the wet soil of Belgium beneath his feet.

How many more lives was he willing to sacrifice before he was satisfied Alfred was ready to fight and die in the hell men and nations had created on this earth? To his dismay, there were two answers inside of him…and only one would ever be acceptable to the British Empire.

He was silent, and then, with eyes finally reflecting the pain of that first moment he'd given into Haig and the agony of knowing it was happening again, Arthur looked to Plumer and found that his wordless plea had not fallen upon deaf ears.

Plumer was nothing if not a man who cared for the plights of his own.

"…The only history of yours known to us mortals is found in books shelved in forgotten libraries," the old man said, demeanor and voice softening as he rubbed the bowl of the pipe in his hand. "I have read those books, old England…and I know the years and care spent in raising what should have been the finest colony in all the empire. But at the same time, I have read the writings these men here send home, and how much they trust me to return them there like their letters."

Arthur said nothing for a time, and Plumer lowered his gaze respectfully. "Forgive me, old friend…but I know that is a hard thing to ask of you. I daresay, I do not think I can forgive many in this war who have sacrificed my men for naught but a few kilometers of dirt." Silence stretched between them for a time before, finally, the human returned the pipe to his mouth and slid his hands into his pockets.

Arthur held his peace as the Field Marshal exited the tent, leaving the aggrieved avatar alone with nothing but maps and lanterns for company. The Englishman was trapped inside himself, caught between a nation's mind that resounded with Plumer and his own heart that fractured even further under the weight of his anguish.

Guilt. Sorrow. Fear. It was an all too familiar cocktail that always preceded a horrible new chapter in his life.

There had once been a time when he could honestly say he had abolished these feelings and was sustained by nothing but power and obsession, moving from one pursuit of conquest to the next with only a sword in one hand and gold slipping through the fingers of the other. He lusted for everything and saw nothing as being out of reach; he ruled the world as it silently ruled him from the shadows of his mind. Trust was such a foreign concept then, and paranoia ran as deep as the rush he took from uprooting that which fed it. He could move armies without qualms, issue orders and advise lesser-minded human masters in events that would catapult them into history. Nothing was more important than his empire; nothing more vital than gaining and keeping power that protected his homeland and forced his enemies to their knees.

What had changed? What had taken all that wretched wealth and left him so saturated with emotions that clouded his vision and obscured his life's ambitions? What had taken him from thinking of his empire first, and to hell with the rest of his kind?

What had taken him from fearing only for himself to fearing for another?

"…God…" He said, raising a shaking hand to his face as he covered his burning eyes. "Damn you for forever ruining me."

* * *

_A grey and filtered dawn had broken through the gap in the curtains over the window. Jaded eyes opened and found the cold light mildly obtrusive, as it roused him from sleep. The previous night had not been a peaceful one, and it was reflected in the dark circles beneath his eyes and lifeless expression on his face. A storm had blanketed the whole of the American east coast just after dark, and between the strange restlessness he'd been feeling every night since putting his ward, the newly named Alfred, into a room of his own and the constant need to check on the boy who he knew was so easily prone to fright when left alone, he had barely slept at all._

_Arthur must have gotten up from his bed and paced the room at least a half dozen times before he had lost the fight with himself to let the boy conquer his fear of the storm alone, and finally entered the child's room to find the lad hiding under the bed. Rather than leave to let Alfred sort himself out or even coax the child back to bed with a speech about keeping a stiff upper lip, Arthur had immediately gone to collect the boy, holding Alfred close as he soothed the child's exhausted cries before returning them both to his room._

_Alfred had no sooner been tucked in against him than he'd fallen asleep, but Arthur had stayed awake for far longer with feelings of guilt for having waited so long…and then for having given in at all._

_He remembered the last midnight storm Alfred had endured hiding in his arms. Bursts of thunder had sounded off like rows of cannons being fired in the attic, making the boy screw his eyes shut and bury his face deeper against him to muffle his whimpers as the house rocked. Several times the walls had shaken almost violently, and even the floorboards had quaked; the windows had rattled and the candlelight coming from the lantern on the bedside table had quivered. Arthur had only been mildly concerned, but Alfred had been shaking like one of the leaves on the trees outside, caught in the crossfires of the tempest winds. Arthur would have thought it was perhaps the thunder that frightened Alfred the most, but something just seemed off about pinning it on the heavens alone…_

"_My lad, I'm sure you've seen plenty of these before and did not have the luxury of a house to protect you. Why should you be afraid now that you're safe?"_

_Even now, he remembered the response clearly._

"_It's not natural!" The child had wailed, completely cocooned against him and in the blanket, sobbing. The Brit remembered drawing back, as puzzlement painted his face. "It's made of dead trees and unnatural things, yet it sounds like it's in pain! It's big, but not old enough to know how to know how to stay standing in this – it's scared, and sure to fall!"_

_The strange combination of profound childish logic and imagination had caught him as off guard then as it did remembering it now. Alfred had always relied on his land and things older than himself for protection; living with his English mentor had been Alfred's first time experiencing life with a house, European dress, food, culture and people in general. While Arthur had been very careful not to expose him to the more populated areas for fear of overwhelming the lad, or risking giving another imperial avatar the opportunity to try and take Alfred for his own, Arthur had tried introducing European and colonial lifestyles to the boy as carefully he could. Everything was absolutely new to Alfred and he relied on Arthur to guide him and protect him through it all._

_Arthur had never had someone so dependent upon him before, and some part of him couldn't help but think that Alfred would suffer in the long run for how much he indulged him for it. Looking down at the golden blond head nestled closely to his chest…his warring thoughts on the matter worsened._

_Sighing, the Englishman held Alfred's sleeping form closer to him, threading a hand through the soft golden locks as Alfred dreamt unabated. He looked from Alfred to the window and watched the sunlight through the post-storm haze making smoky shadows across the room. The storm last night had been merciless like the last storm he remembered, and there was likely much repair work that would need to be done around the estate and the nearby town. He needed to rise and get started on the tasks ahead of him, for they would sooner compound before lessening._

_However, the moment he tried to untangle his arms from Alfred and move, the small hand clutching his shirt tightened and made him freeze. Alfred still looked fast asleep, but his hand was tightly fisted in the Englishman's clothes, and his body still curled against him. It hadn't been more than a few hours since Arthur had laid the boy down for sleep, and he knew both of them were exhausted…_

_Sighing again Arthur wordlessly gave in and rested back onto the bed, pulling the blanket up higher around them then wrapping his arms around Alfred once more._

_The work would still be there when he woke again, but some day his moments like this with Alfred wouldn't be. He would be grown up, and while Arthur told himself it was what he wanted…he didn't want it today._

* * *

The barracks were unstraightened rows of haphazardly pitched canvas tents, barely enough for two men, yet were slated to accommodate no less than four. The abodes were short green pyramids that came just higher than the average standing man's head. Nearly all of the entrance flaps were closed with hastily written signs bearing the serial numbers of the wounded occupying them; most tents by this stage of the campaign were used as overflow for housing the wounded, as hospital tents filled to max occupancy too quickly.

Farther away from the trenches the sounds and smells of the ungodly place were less noticeable, and Arthur was glad for it as he looked at the horizon and tried to stifle the part of him praying for dawn not to come. He followed the trail left in the wake of the man he had failed to spare yet again, and stopped a few steps away from the last tent before drawing himself up.

He heard voices just before drawing the entrance cover aside and finding Alfred sitting cross-legged on an unfurled bedroll, and Walker leaning against the canvas siding with his rifle across his lap. Arthur and the Australian made eye contact first, and Walker only paused a moment before turning back to Alfred and rising to his feet.

"Get some sleep, Jones. I'll be back for ya in the morning," was all he said before brushing past Arthur, sharing a look with him before heading off down the winding column.

Alfred finally met Arthur's gaze and gave him a small smile, scratching the back of his neck while grabbing one of his drawn-up boots with his other hand. "Found him down here looking over those numbers on the tents…I guess he's looking for members of his old unit."

The Englishman didn't immediately respond, but finally made a noncommittal sound and reached up with a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. He then sighed, "Don't get too attached to the people you meet out here, Alfred…aside from humans dying easily, not all of them have your best interests in mind."

Alfred blinked and then shrugged. He had always found it easier to connect with and gain the friendships of humans as opposed to his own kind…hell, it had taken centuries to get even his own brother to like him. Yes, human friendships were short-lived but that didn't stop him from enjoying and valuing their companionship any less. Besides, Walker was on their side…maybe Arthur was just talking about Plumer for ordering him out into the trenches come daylight…

Yeah, he was scared about going, but…he had told himself he was resolved to doing his job and seeing it through. Plus, he owed it to those guys out there and Matthew to make up for the losses he'd caused.

Alfred's eyes traveled over to the bedroll that Ward had set up next to his and smirked, "Hey, remember Paris? Guess you can't hogtie me with my own shoelaces under the bed this time, hm?"

Instead of getting the quick-witted remark or arrogant smirk he'd been hoping for, Arthur winced and his whole body tensed. Alfred had only been trying to lighten the situation with a memory he now found pretty funny, but he bit his lip and found himself backtracking at this unexpected reaction.

"Oh, come on…no hard feelings about it. If I get into a fight with any Germans in a French hotel room, I'll do your move justice – promise."

Arthur shook his head at the memory and how terribly similar this entire evening was to the last one they'd had in Paris. It had been their last night in civilization before the journey that had spiraled out of control ultimately lead them here. But Alfred didn't seem to draw those same connections in all of this; he only took the briefest of moments from the past while forever looking forward.

But what lay ahead made him nervous. Arthur could see it in his coiled posture, his flexing hands that were always tightening around his boots or the bedroll. There was more perspiration on his face than usual, even on this chilly night. His eyes were a little wider and were constantly twitching with energy. He also couldn't keep that anxious smile off his face; it was Alfred's only real mask and it always failed because his eyes and body language gave everything away. He was scared, but he was more concerned with trying to ease his companion's fears than deal with his own.

Or rather…this was Alfred's way of dealing with it, focusing his energy on someone else rather than himself.

"Hey, Arthur…" Alfred began, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he continued to nervously grip his ankle with the other. "Could you…tell me what's gonna happen tomorrow? I mean, just the plan…I don't need the other details."

The Brit didn't reply for a long while, but finally he finished recalling his words with Plumer and tried to find the voice with which to speak them. No, Alfred didn't need the details of what tomorrow would be like, or the next day if he saw it…but the plan…the plan seemed just as terrible as the fate it entailed.

"Tomorrow you will go with the British Second Army out to the Passchendaele area, where the Second Army will relieve sections of the British Fifth and join command with the Canadian units entrenched there. You are to take the ridge, then take the village," he said, making it sound like the simplest thing in the world but for his tone of tight-lipped resignation.

Alfred looked at Arthur, but the Brit wouldn't meet his eyes. Alfred knew Arthur had been trying to talk Plumer out of making him go, and in truth he knew Arthur could have won if he had truly put all of his political savvy into the argument. Just as Arthur could have argued how Plumer's orders would conflict with their current mission, he could have brought up that Alfred was an American, an associative power and under no authority of the British military; if Alfred had wanted to, he knew he could have laughed and told the British commander where to shove his orders and spare himself the front. But he hadn't, and both he and Arthur had known he wouldn't…just as Alfred knew Arthur wouldn't pull that card for him when he'd been arguing his case with Plumer.

Alfred was his own nation making his own decisions now, and as much as he knew Arthur hated a lot of the decisions he made, the nation inside of Arthur always won out when it came to exploiting the bad decisions of others for the benefit of his empire. The American couldn't blame him for it, not now when he saw how conflicted Arthur was about letting his nation-side win; and there was no doubt in Alfred's mind that Arthur was suffering beneath his masks. He'd never been surer of it until he'd started getting to know the real Arthur on this journey.

Without a word, Arthur finally crossed the threshold and sat down at the end of his own bedroll next to Alfred's. There wasn't a lot of space in the tent, but it was better than sleeping in the trenches, as he well knew, and he never complained as he removed the belts and holster still on him, leaving it all by his gear Ward had carried off earlier. The only thing he took from the pile was the blanket rolled atop his packsack, and unfurled it as he loosened the tent flap and lay back on the bedspread.

The meager layer between him and the ground did little to soften the hard surface or keep the cold of the earth from seeping through to him; but he pulled the blanket up and rested his head on his arm before closing his eyes, willing himself to try and sleep as he both heard and felt Alfred settling down behind him. Arthur hadn't slept at all since waking in Arras and the fatigue was getting to him…he needed to sleep, even though he did not welcome the nightmares that would come of it.

But worse than that, Alfred's constant movement behind him was grating on his last nerves.

"…Alfred, as this will likely be your last night out of a trench, I suggest you take as much advantage of it as you can," the Englishman said with only a slight growl to his voice. Of course it did little to stop the fidgeting.

"Uh, y-yeah, sorry," Alfred replied, still shifting from one side…to the other…and back. Arthur could understand it being uncomfortable, considering it was cramped, the ground was rock hard, and it was cold, but –

Ah…and Alfred had no blanket.

He had noticed the lad's lack of it when leaving the Canadian unit to return to Arras. Walker had only confirmed why Alfred was missing it after the night Arthur had returned to the dugout they'd made camp in on the way north, and found Alfred curled into a ball and near-frozen.

As he did that night while watching Alfred's self-induced suffering, Arthur closed his eyes, feeling a combination of irritation…and pride. The lad would never learn how important his own wellbeing meant in the greater scheme of things, but as Arthur would be a hypocrite for scolding him for it he had to be proud that the lad's recklessness was not without selfless cause.

What seemed like hours had passed before Alfred's exhaustion seemed to get the better of him and his tossing and turning ceased. Arthur remained still and unable to sleep at all, and after listening to Alfred's even breathing long enough the Brit rose on the now slightly warmed earth and looked down at Alfred. The American was curled into the same near fetal position he had found him in on countless nights throughout his life, as close to his former mentor's body as possible for warmth. Arthur's chest tightened as he felt defeat washing over him yet again.

He'd been trying so hard to see Alfred as an adult – a soldier ready for this war – because time, circumstance and his commanders were forcing him; but every time he thought he was ready, that _Alfred_ was ready…

"Bloody bastard…why won't you let me let you grow up?" He whispered, glaring down at Alfred in frustration as if he needed to cover up the truth even when Alfred wasn't awake to judge him.

Without another word, Arthur tossed the blanket over the American next to him before grabbing his gear and leaving the tent.

The outside world was cold and unkind, spearing through his seemingly paper-thin uniform and biting mercilessly at his skin. Arthur shivered and watched his breath spirit away from his mouth in a shudder. He hastily began slinging on his belts and harness in an attempt to use movement to prompt blood circulation before he began heading away from the tempting warmth of the tent, and what was likely the last night he'd get to safely watch over Alfred.

He felt obligated to keep walking and put distance between them. He felt compelled to let the bitter winter of this Godforsaken place remind him why he was here and make him angry again. He couldn't be a father anymore because he couldn't afford it; he couldn't be a human because he wasn't. He was a nation, an empire; he was a soldier and he was going back to the front he and his people had been struggling in for close to four years now. He needed his head about him, not his heart. Alfred had a terrible talent for bringing out the kindness in him and there was no room for that here – none whatsoever.

Alfred had his job, and Arthur had his. It was time to find Plumer and do what he should have done with their private audience – disclose the entirety of the mission and get the hell moving.

* * *

His violent jolt back to reality came in the form of highflying steel impacting with the muscles beneath his ribcage, forcing an ungodly yelp from him as he launched from his fetal position, bolting right up.

"Jones, get the bloody hell up! We gotta go!"

Alfred's eyes were wild and frantic, his hair an untidy mess and his filthy uniform more haywire than usual. His side was also flaring in absolute agony, and he gasped and found all sorts of strange noises coming out of his mouth, as he tried to come to terms with reality and what projectile had just nailed him in the torso. The man at the tent entrance looked thoroughly annoyed and shouted for him to move out again before Alfred recognized Walker's nearly eternal scowl.

While Alfred genuinely liked the Australian, today it seemed Walker was getting off to an excellent start as an asshole. The American picked up the object thrown at him and glared.

"A helmet? Where I come from a simple '_wake up_' suffices," the American bit out, still rubbing his side.

"Where I come from, when the big guy says _move out_ you don't bitch about the methodology of Reveille," he scathingly replied and pushed himself up from his crouched position, out of sight from the tent opening. "We're moving out; I'm not telling you again."

Alfred had no idea what had gotten into the man, but he was less concerned about him when he realized that he was alone. Arthur was gone, and he hadn't noticed the blanket on top of him until then. He hesitated for only a moment before hastily grabbing the helmet and his things and then raced out of the tent, only to be blinded by the intense flares exploding in the sky over the distant trenches. It was disorienting and only compounded his already befuddled state. He could tell dawn was barely rising, so he couldn't understand the sudden lights.

Men were shouting from all directions, but once he had managed to right his vision he saw the streams of soldiers double-timing it north of his position. He didn't immediately see Walker, but began running towards the growing crowd as he strapped on his gear – and lastly his helmet. He was hitching the rifle up on his shoulder when a hand grabbed his elbow and yanked him close, but kept him running.

It was Walker, and his expression hadn't changed much. "We've got a ten to twenty minute diversion before those flares and the cover fire wear down!" He said, shouting over the noise that was growing the closer they got to the columns of soldiers lining up behind massive steel-plated vehicles in various stages of repair, high walls of debris, and sandbags piled high enough to conceal crouching men. They kept moving towards it, and Alfred felt his heart rate increasing. "Keep low, stay with me at all times and for God's sake don't stop for anything. You look back once, I swear I'll knock your block off."

Alfred ignored the threat and nearly did look back, but not for any reasons of nostalgia. "Where's Arthur?"

Walker didn't seem to have heard him as he tightened his grip on the American when men coming from all angles swept them up into the sea of soldiers lining the makeshift barrier. Bodies were pressing against bodies, all rapidly moving forward with older men shoving those younger and overwhelmed into position with their harsh words and the butts of their rifles. Alfred was wide-eyed and feeling claustrophobic, he felt a bayonet scrape against his leg and a man behind him began shouting for people to move faster to make room for those still falling in.

When he wasn't wincing from the sheer brilliance of the flares reflecting off the ocean of steel helmets in front of him, he was watching the shadowed, alien faces trying to take in the madness just like he was. But more importantly, he was trying to search for the only familiar face that could possibly be among the crowd. He felt panic begin to rise, but suddenly his collar was grabbed, and he was yanked until he was face to face with Walker.

The world narrowed down to just the two of them.

"You're America," he said gravely. "Now act like it."

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Ladies and gentleman, you have my sincerest apologizes for how long this update has taken and my deepest gratitude for sticking with me through it. This chapter has been one of the more challenging between its content and my lack of proper time to be able to sit down and work on it, but its finally finished. I cannot thank my wonderful and loyal Beta editor enough for how much time she's spent tackling this and working with my insane schedule. Thank you so much, **Acqua-Toffana**! T~T

Without further ado, I shall get on with the notes~

-The comparison Alfred gives in the beginning is based off the descriptions of the 1812 Battle of Fort McHenry. During one of the opening battles in the War of 1812 (between the U.S. and the British Empire, including British Canada), Fort McHenry was the site of a great defensive stand by Americans to protect Baltimore Harbor. The British Navy conducted a sea offensive that lasted for just over 25 hours of constant artillery and cannon fire, as well as a diversionary land offensive that failed to uproot American defenses. Though the Americans were out gunned and out numbered, they managed to keep the British out of Baltimore – mainly due to the massive barrier of ships scuttled to block the entrance of the harbor. Other than it being considered one of the greatest defensive achievements for America during the war, is was also the battle that inspired a lawyer named Francis Scott Key to write a piece that would later become "The Star Spangled Banner", which is the national anthem of the U.S.A. :) Just thought I'd add that bit~

-Due to the chemical nature of much of the warfare in WWI, a lot of the chemicals used were notorious for seeping into the ground and pooling especially in the trenches. The health risks of mustard gas, phosgene, and nerve and chlorine gas included things like: blindness, internal and external chemical burns, skin rashes and blisters, and in extreme cases chemical exposure can compound on other health hazards (such as disease and other injuries) and cause necrosis (tissue decay) or worsen pulmonary issues with fatal or near fatal consequences. ): Worse still, some of these horrible chemicals and others were INTENTIONALLY uses by soldiers in their own trenches to control parasites, rodents, and vainly disinfect disease-ridden areas. Sadly, this often backfired as the deadly chemicals just became part of the earth and were rereleased when weather or trench expansion occurred. Overall, it should go without saying how horrible life in the trenches was…I highly encourage people to look up documentary footage or read some eyewitness accounts for a broader picture than what I've given here. It really is the stuff of nightmares…

-Yes, it really has been three months since Alfred and Arthur first left Paris and six months since Arthur and Alfred were first reunited in chapter three. Hot damn! The first American troops began arriving in France in June, and November (where we are now in the story) is at the beginning of the third and final phase of the Passchendaele campaign, or as it's also known – the Third Battle of Ypres. :) The next chapter is already in progress, and I am very happy to be writing action again!

-Arthur makes this next note SO much easier, as he pretty much explains the present situation of the Passchendaele Campaign very well. The village of Passchendaele was a strategic point held by the Germans and the Allied forces had been fighting to reclaim it since July, which would be approximately 2-3 months prior to this point in the story. In short this entire region (from Ypres to Passchendaele) is full of ridges that make the high ground, which is a prime spot to have ANYWHERE in France during WWI…and as such, it was heavily fought over. The three battles of Ypres are some of the heaviest and most active battles of the entire war, and during the second battle of the region was the first time the Germans had used gas against Allied troops. The use of flamethrowers, tanks, and also General Plumer's (I'll have more on him in a second) tactic of planting bombs beneath enemy tunnels and trenches to maximize damage and minimize the risk of casualties to soldiers hadn't been seen before these battles (stretching from 1914-1917). In terms of the battle here, the heaviest fighting for both sides had boiled down to the last stand of the Germans in Passchendaele and what the remaining Allied troops could muster in order to finish the mission they set out to accomplish months prior. And yes, it was primarily the Canadian divisions left to spearhead the Allied assault with the British units relieving and backing their fellow soldiers up.

-As a quick note, desertion was a real problem for both sides of this war and all nations involved. The overwhelming psychological stresses, physical conditions and often times the younger ages and inexperience of troops contributed to this problem. AWOL soldiers were not treated lightly, and it was not uncommon during charges for men to be assigned to remain in the trenches to reroute or shoot those who ran back. This is all in relevance to Ward's actions of pulling a gun on Arthur and Alfred in the tent and Plumer's comments to them. It could have been construed that our boys were looking over maps for the best escape route out of Belgium.

-Field Marshal Herbert Plumer was indeed the man in charge during from 1915-1917 in the Ypres region. Plumer was indeed a unique man of leadership in that his background was set in the infantry and not in a more illustrious position, like a mounted or even bought commission. He was known as a kind of "soldier's soldier" who sympathized with his men because he'd been in their position and knew the burdens of it. He had great concern for reducing casualties as much as possible, and is well known for his tactics at the Battle of Messines, where he employed heavy collaboration tactics between infantry and engineers to plant explosive devices beneath ridges where enemies were entrenched and detonate. The unorthodox method had reduced Allied casualties tremendously and afterwards was considered one of the greatest successes for the Allies of the war. From that battle also comes one of Plumer's most famous quotes: "Gentlemen, we may not make history tomorrow, but we shall certainly change the geography." Considering both occurred…I think this is a pretty cool quote. As for Lieutenant Percy "Stick-up-his-ass" Ward, he is fictional and a creation of my own design. :)

-Yeah, the past couple chapters have been full of a lot of Alfred character building moments…so now its Arthur's turn, and you better believe he hates me for them. ;_; Poor guy…from buccaneering to bottle feeding – he had a tough transition, and then Al had to go all puberty and revolutionary on him.

~XD Aren't Hetalia summaries fun?~

I really want to apologize if I've missed anything anyone wanted me to elaborate on, so as always feel free to message me there are any questions on anything in the story or relating to the history. T~T It was super early in the morning when I wrote this and had been a very long 24 hours without sleep, so please forgive any grammatical, spelling or noting oversights here – my "Notes" sections DOES NOT go through Beta-ing.

Before I sign off and starting off my next day (_ which is oddly enough at night), I wanted to take the time to recognize the names of the reviews I've had since my last round of recognitions some chapters ago. I truly appreciate the reviews left for all of my stories so much, and I know I'm very behind in my personal 'thank yous', so please accept this and know I absolutely love you all!

~*~_Thank You Reviewers, Consultants & Muses_~*~

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Again, thank you all so much and I hope all readers have enjoyed this new chapter! I am happy to announce that the next chapter is already in production and am even more pleased to announce the action promised in the ending scenes here will start off 21 hitting the ground running! To all readers, reviewers, subscribers and fans – THANK YOU AND UNTIL NEXT TIME!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Intense Scenes of War, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty One Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XXI

_"The Burning Grey"_

This was insane.

The hand with a death-grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him from being washed away by the sea of chaos surrounding him. The flares in the sky were gone, but the explosions never stopped. Somewhere beyond the meager barrier protecting the hundreds of troops racing for the far end of the trench, artillery shells changed the face of the planet and bullets replaced air molecules, all in an effort to give them time to haul ass to God knew where.

Alfred hadn't spoken since Walker bluntly told him they were on their own, and he couldn't do anything other than try to keep up with the Australian, as he cut a path through the raging current of men. The whole experience was deafening between the shouts around him, the cries of motivation and panic, the war happening just beyond his sight, and the piercing whistles of things falling from the sky just before the world shook. He'd been elbowed, kicked, accidently stabbed with bayonets and butted with rifles more times than he could count, but Walker never slowed down and he was fucking grateful for it.

Suddenly, the world went from shaking to bucking beneath him and he was thrown forward when a tidal wave of screaming men crashed into him from behind. There had been another explosion, this one much closer, and what debris hadn't fallen on the shield of bodies on top of him struck the areas of his face his helmet wasn't covering. He couldn't breathe; he was being crushed and suffocated by the burning stench of metal, dirt and flesh before multiple hands began reaching down and scrambling to get people up and moving again.

Walker's hands were on him once more, getting him to his feet and not giving him any time to recover before yanking him back into the remainder of their section of the current, and as quickly behind the standing barriers as he could.

Running. Running faster. Not looking back. Alfred was still trying to retrain his body to breathe, but he couldn't focus long enough. He was having trouble hearing; everything sounded muffled and distant behind the high-pitched ringing in his ears. His eyes were reddened and watered from the grit caught in them, and there was a horrible pain radiating from his lower back. He was holding onto his rifle so tightly he thought his hands might fuse with it, and for once he wasn't complaining about the helmet, as shower after shower from the storm of pelting debris rained down on him.

There was another intense quake, but Alfred and the men around him only briefly stumbled as they regained their breakneck pace. Another section of the barrier had been hit up ahead, which meant even more of their numbers had been reduced. Alfred's stomach was in knots when he saw nothing but thick smoke and raining ash in the distance, and all along the wall were flames eating away at what was left of their cover.

Walker looked back and shouted something, but Alfred couldn't hear him and frankly wasn't paying attention; his gaze was turned away towards the bodies littering the path.

Men were forcing themselves not to look down or give second glances; they jumped over body after body, racing for the next solid section of the barrier to catch up with the rest of the group. Alfred tried to employ the same tactics, but was failing miserably. He barely made it halfway when he slipped in something dark and wet, falling and catching himself on his hands as he came face to face with the twisted remains of what was left of a British soldier. The encounter lasted only long enough for Walker to grab hold of him again, and then to resume their previous pace.

Alfred hadn't been so covered in blood since Arras, and he wasn't happy about renewing the experience.

The race to catch up seemed impossible. Alfred felt as if the ground were forever stretching before him and extending its hellish miles out of spite. His feet never stopped moving, and Walker's hand never released his arm. Alfred was no more consciously aware of breathing than he was of how fast his legs were moving, or how many men he and Walker had finally begun to rush past in the mad dash for the front of the line. The obstacles flew by as Alfred swore not to make the same mistake of trying to make sense of them and allow for distraction again. He could have been leaping over sandbags or bodies and wouldn't have known the difference; all that mattered was that he didn't stop until his body or the war gave out first.

At some point he had passed Walker, and the human's weakening strength caused his fingers on the American to loosen as he fell behind, too out of breath to call out for his charge to stop. But he didn't have to, because this time it was Alfred reaching back to keep him moving.

Though he tried to ignore his heart, heavy with grief, as he passed human after human he couldn't save, it was an unspoken promise that he and the Australian were finishing this race. Walker had done his best to get him this far, now it was his time to return the favor.

* * *

_Baltimore – the logical strategic choice, but he had warned them that this war had scarcely been about logic. He had stressed to them, practically begged them not to leave Washington undefended and his pleas had fallen completely upon deaf ears. Madison was looking north and not to the west of the Chesapeake, as he should have. It had been the reason Alfred had removed himself from the fighting at the Patuxent to return to his capital and persuade his leaders to reason. _

_To his anger and dismay, the reaction he had received from his boss had been the empty reassurance of a stressed parent to a child, and his military leaders had only dubbed him daft, with orders to leave intelligence to the qualified. No one would listen, no one believed him, and Alfred knew in those moments that the humans truly didn't understand him, or that the game had changed…_

_Arthur had landed on America's shores for the first time since departing from them at the end of the Revolution, and Alfred knew that unlike _his_ leaders…Arthur's were listening to the words _he_ whispered into their ears. _

Take the heart, and you shall have the nation on its knees.

_Now, Bladensburg, the last-ditch effort by the only soldiers left to assemble outside the fields of Washington, had fallen. The disaster made an absolute mockery of everything the patriots of old had fought and died for, as the battle had lasted little more than an hour before turning into a chaotic retreat. While he was screaming his case to his heads of state in Washington he felt the echoes of Bladensburg, and knew all hope was lost. His knees had given out, and for the first time since arriving in his capital he had lapsed into silence._

_It was the silence that had finally convinced his leaders of what his words could not, but rather than fighting for him an evacuation was ordered…but Alfred could no more run away than he could rip his own heart out._

_He had been taken kicking and screaming from the Presidential Mansion, and loaded into a carriage bound as far away from Washington as possible. The coach had only made it so far before Alfred had become uncontrollable and disarmed his retainers, seized a horse from the caravan, and began riding as quickly as possible back for the capital._

_Running. He had to run faster. Not away from the terrors invading him, but towards them at full speed. His commanders had failed him, his own President had failed him; his people had tried to save him and proved no match for the British war machine proceeding towards his heart, hellbent on making an example of America's impudence. He didn't know what he would do when he got there or even what he could do; he didn't know if his pleas to spare Washington would be any more effectual than his failed petitions to defend it, but even alone as he knew he had to try. _

_He had to; he was too afraid of the consequences if he didn't. Beyond wanting to protect the people and city at the core of his nation, he had felt the pain of invasion before during the Revolution – how each colony taken had caused him so much agony it had brought him the closest in life he'd ever been left thinking death might have been merciful. He had no desire to endure the suffering wrought from his own heart being gutted and bled from within by British guns and bayonets, again._

_But he was too late._

_Bolting over the last hill between him and Washington, the first spark was struck and Alfred felt as if he'd been kicked by a Clydesdale, causing him to lurch and nearly pitch from the saddle. The horse beneath him swerved in its course and started slowing, but Alfred knew he couldn't afford to lose any more time, and righted the beast as soon as he could breathe again. Panic was beginning to swell in him as the first echoes of pain from the attack on the town surrounding Washington began, and the tightness in his chest was steadily increasing. He needed to go faster!_

_He no sooner made it to the outskirts of the city, his horse no more than a moment's gallop away from the perimeter, before a second kick from within threw him from his mount. Alfred never felt his impact with the ground or remembered how many times he tumbled, as nothing registered over the blaring pain in his chest. _

_He was gasping, but all he breathed was fire. Flames seared his mouth and throat, setting his lungs ablaze and his whole body seized as the British made a pyre inside of him. His heart was racing but couldn't escape; his ribs had formed a prison in which the precious organ burned alive within him, and all he could hear was its screams – screams that he so badly wanted to echo but couldn't past the inferno choking him. _

_He could only taste fire as smoke filled his nose and sinuses. The orders for more torches deafened him as much as the pleas from the steadfast citizens remaining in the city. His skin was melting from his burning bones, he was sure of it. The heat from his body was impossible to contain and he thought the earth around him might burst into flames along with him. _

_When a sound did escape him, it was a strained, half-choked whine as his body thrummed with the marching of British soldiers through his veins. He couldn't stop them from coming any more than he could reverse the clock of this war. Red-clad soldiers flooded him and began invading the center of his being, ransacking his congressional chambers, and throwing tinder and torches on the arteries leading in and out of his nation's core. He wanted to scream, to fight back against the seizure and subsequent torture of his heart, but he could no more find the strength to stand up through the pain than take on the might of the British Army by himself._

_He felt burning behind his eyes, but couldn't tell if it was from tears or the fire consuming what was left of him._

_The night was filled with the red brilliance of Washington burning. Though Alfred remained on the ground, tightly holding himself as if it might keep the rest of him from falling to ashes, he didn't need to look up to know what the sight of his nation's capital being consumed looked like. He saw and felt it in every fiber of his being…and wished, for the first time in his life, that the men in power who had condemned him to this could feel it too._

* * *

"Hit the deck!"

Before Walker even had time to react to the soldier up ahead yelling out the command, Alfred had dropped them both and was half-covering the Australian as the screeching whistling above them ended in an explosion. The earth shook from the impact of the mortar round near their position and a tidal wave of dirt crested the now nearly depleted protective wall crashing down over them. Neither man could move for several moments before Alfred burst forth from the earthen flood and dragged Walker up along with him.

He would have asked if the man was alright, but knew there wasn't time as another whistle in the distance signaled that another round was coming.

Running through the bombarded area was like racing through mud. The ground beneath them was saturated with a mixture of retained rainwater, chemicals and bloody gore. Each time another bomb exploded a new layer of soft earth and flesh was added to the thoroughfare, and where they weren't dying from it, the men were dropping from the sheer exhaustion of trying to get through it. The numbers of the pack had lessened considerably, but there were still enough soldiers pushing on to make a unit – Walker and Alfred among them.

Neither man had so much as made a comment or looked at each other until the path up ahead became hugely obscured – but this time by living, breathing men jumping down from an incline and disappearing beneath the earth. Alfred faltered at the sight, but Walker seemed reinvigorated and in a burst of energy he took the lead, pulling Alfred along until they were both over the edge.

The Australian landed on his feet and soon collapsed to his knees under the weight of his gear while Alfred, who hadn't been expecting the jump, fell painfully on his side. Both men were out of breath, muscles feeling viscous and unable to take any more abuse. Alfred felt his heart pounding in his head and his blood felt thicker than his veins could handle. Looking over at Walker, who was slowly getting to his feet and stumbling until he was able to lean against the trench wall, Alfred guessed he wasn't much better.

"Look alive, mates! We wait here ten more minutes and then get as far down this trench as bloomin' possible," someone shouted from the front of the group. "You oughta keep your heads down and keep going north; don't slow for anything! We're already late, so I'm pretty sure the Canadians must think they're waiting on a bunch of bloody Americans."

The comment got a few chuckles from the men who could spare them but none from Alfred, who scowled deeply as he pushed himself back to his feet but was half-stopped by Walker grabbing him.

The Australian gave him a look reminding him to keep his cool, but Alfred really didn't need it. He was too wired and exhausted all at the same time to be biting back at a British soldier making smart-ass comments. Besides, it wasn't as if anyone here knew he was the lone American in the group.

More troops gradually trickled into the trench, and after the designated wait, the man at the head of the group ordered everyone who could to move out. With the belief that the survivors still to come would eventually follow, everyone picked up whatever gear they had dropped and mustered on. Walker and Alfred stuck close to each other, not just because of their familiarity with one another, but also because it became increasingly obvious from the uniforms and accents around them that they were the only non-British soldiers in the lot. There was a sense of isolation even among allies, and the pair kept quiet and shoulder-to-shoulder when they could, and as front to back as possible when they couldn't.

The trench was a winding and uneven beast; the ground rose and fell in height, as did the dirt walls lining it. Sometimes it was easy enough for two to three men to run abreast, but at other points it narrowed to barely accommodate a single soldier and his gear pack. It was a trial for everyone to keep going, given how tiring and harrowing the journey just to get to the trench had been and how some people were now noticing that comrades were missing. Even Alfred was still feeling the painful weight of not knowing where Arthur was, but he had to keep going and just be grateful Arthur was a damn hard man to kill.

He was out here somewhere and he'd find him, but first he had to survive fulfilling his obligation to Matthew and the Field Marshall.

Suddenly, something hard knocked against the back of his helmet and nearly sent him stumbling into the man in front of him. The shock of it had him paling and searching around for the source in a panic, one hand trying to fix his skewed helmet as the other tried to balance him.

"I warned you not to look back or I'd knock your block off. Best not forget I'm a man of my word."

Alfred whipped his head around and stared at Walker in absolute shock while the Australian only returned a stern look to the American. Alfred looked absolutely indignant, but knew arguing the point was moot. The current situation aside, Alfred knew his expressions always gave everything away and Walker had already made it known how easily he could read them. He couldn't deny that in a roundabout way he really had been looking back, but he hadn't thought Walker's threat had been as figurative as it had been literal. As much as he'd have loved to return the smack, he left his protest at a grimace and mumbled a flippant obscenity before turning away.

It didn't look like the company was stopping any time soon, so energy would be best spent on moving rather than arguing.

After a while, the momentary break in tensions made Alfred miss conversation and need interaction beyond the accidental push or shove, or jab with a bayonet. Time passed and he eventually fell back a little more to be even with Walker, and leaned in like an adolescent scandalously conversing in church. He felt a little silly about it, but he didn't feel all that comfortable speaking out loud when the somber atmosphere surrounding the group was so oppressing.

"So, the goal was to get to these trenches, right? And these should take us all the way to where the other units are?"

The Australian gave Alfred a brief sidelong look before staring ahead again and nodding. "The Canadians and Anzac – the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps where I come from – built these trenches during the first two phases of the campaign. They were supposed to remain open as permanent supply lines once the defensive lines of the front were more solid, but as you can see that's hardly the case," he began, keeping his voice low enough for just Alfred to hear over the distant chaos beyond them. "The front is constantly moving, and the line where the bulk of the fighting is is more snakelike than anything. Where we started the line was closer to us, hence the difficulty encountered in getting this far…but soon it should curve away before we reach the northern units where they're getting ready to spearhead the German hold in this area right on."

Alfred thought about this for a while and remembered the maps he had been looking over with Arthur before the abrupt meeting with the Field Marshal. It seemed incredible to him how so many people were out here fighting in these horrendous conditions for what seemed like feet and inches of ground, but here he was joining the ranks ordered to do just that. This had been going on for…three, four years now?

By God…

"How long do you think it'll take to oust the Germans from the village?"

There was a sudden jolt in Walker next to him before the man turned to stare. "What did you say?"

Alfred blinked and looked confused. He didn't think he'd said anything inappropriate… "How long do you think the operation will be to take the village?"

It seemed incredibly out of place to him, but Alfred watched as an odd sort of scrutiny crossed Walker's features before the man grunted, shrugged his shoulders to adjust his gear pack and looked away.

"As long as it takes."

Sometimes, Alfred just didn't get this guy.

As time dragged on it became clear that Walker's prediction about the line curving away was right. The sounds of the battle beyond were more distant than they had been in what felt like ages, and many breathed a sigh of relief. The pace slowed to something less frantic and more manageable; some men were even able to fall back and rest for a bit or take time to sip at their canteens. Alfred hadn't taken a headcount before the company had moved from where they entered the trench to where they were now, but he could still tell their numbers had lessened even further from the initial mad dash to the rally point.

All around there were sounds of men coughing and labored breaths of exhaustion; he could hear someone further back moving quickly through the lines calling out names and asking others if they'd seen his friends. Someone close by was chanting something under his breath, either a psalm or prayer he guessed, and someone, who had to be a medic, had a man's arm slung over his shoulder as he continuously triaged the soldier as they walked. The entire experience heading northward made his stomach twist, but for fear of another smack to the head by Walker he kept his face and thoughts focused on the destination up ahead.

Further down the trench Alfred heard something heavy collapse, and while the line never stopped moving, it split to accommodate the only soldier who stopped to aid a man who had crumpled from exhaustion. Alfred saw the struggle the men were having, and against Walker's grab at his shoulder to halt him he jogged forward and tapped the assisting Brit's shoulder, and motioned him on. The man didn't seem to notice or care about Alfred's uniform in his gratefulness, and stepped back to let the American take over.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Alfred crouched down and pulled the fallen man's arm behind his neck, holding it steady as he used his other hand to grab the soldier's belt at his hip, hauling him to his feet. Given how tired he was it had taken more effort than usual, but he knew he could still support the man's weight and his own and keep going. The man was burning hot to the touch and his skin was an angry red; his breaths were fast and shallow, and his eyes were near closed and unfocused. He was sweating profusely, and as Alfred moved forward he noted that he was more dragging the man than helping him walk. It seemed the soldier's strength had completely given out…it made Alfred wonder how many more were in this condition and not getting any help at all.

"Hey, stay with me," Alfred coaxed the man. "I can do all the walking, but you gotta hang in there for me, okay?"

The man seemed too far gone to even be listening to him, but he kept breathing so Alfred felt that that was at least a good sign. Alfred felt someone stepping in closer to him and knew it was Walker, but it didn't stop him from continuing to whisper words of encouragement to the man he was carrying.

The soldier lived over the next few miles it took for the company to finally arrive at the last leg of the journey. Considering the strife involved in reaching their goal there should have been celebration, but no one so much as uttered a sound while drawing up to weary attention upon reaching the Canadian units waiting to commence the final assault on Passchendaele.

The sight at the end of the road wasn't much better than the road itself.

In a widely dug-out section of the trench, packed into the near-circular enclosure of mud and sandbags, were close to a hundred Canadian soldiers. Men were unrecognizable beneath the dirt and grime of their surroundings that covered them from head to toe, but scattered Dominion insignias were unmistakable in their identification. Steel-helmed heads seemed to turn up all at once in the direction of the incoming Brits, but whatever hope there had been upon the initial thought of reinforcements died upon beholding the sight of the battle-weary soldiers trudging forward.

Alfred watched as faces and hearts sank, and those who had given up on standing lowered themselves to the ground to hang their heads in defeat. Older men with harder faces put on stone masks and rooted themselves to the spot as the British company came to a halt, and the Brits looked on to those they had come to back up with equally disheartened expressions.

This was all the commanders had sent to reclaim Passchendaele from the Germans? Dead, dying and disconsolate men…?

A sharp breath from the man he'd been supporting brought Alfred back to the present, and he quickly began tending to the soldier he'd promised to help.

"Is there a medic?" Alfred called out, breaking the thickness of the atmosphere and gaining the attention of many who watched him lower the exhausted British soldier to the ground. The American removed the man's gear as quickly as he could before he finally looked up again, but felt his ire rising when he saw no one responding. "Is there a _medic_!"

He couldn't believe how long it took for people to begin moving. A few senior Canadian soldiers began issuing commands for others to bring water canteens and med kits, and rail off lists of names of people they wanted front and center. The British soldiers who were still well enough to remain mobile aided by pairing up with Dominion soldiers to help move equipment and stabilize men overcome by their injuries and fatigue. A Dominion soldier came to Alfred far too slow for his liking, but began working on hydrating the weakened Briton as the American continued supporting him. Alfred was more than relieved that the man seemed to be responding, but as he looked beyond the situation before him he saw that the majority of the men in both units were stationary.

Damn near frozen in time.

Men were standing still or huddled against the trench wall, heads hanging and gazes lost. Others seemed to be watching those who were moving with oddly detached expressions, as though the entire world were an out-of-body experience. Alfred looked from one seemingly lifeless form to the next and found himself wondering if he was in a trench or a grave. It was like looking at the empty shells of men whose souls had been spirited away, and the bodies left behind were in varied states of confusion, woe, or acceptance. The very atmosphere of the place seemed to drain energy from everyone trapped within it, and Alfred felt the immediate instinct to counter it with quick-tempered emotions and action. Part of him knew how irrational his anger-fueled frustration was; that it was no more the fault of these men for their dispirited states than it was for them to be succumbing to this unnatural place. But rationality did nothing to relax his tensed muscles, his clenched fists, or his shaking body.

He couldn't figure out who he was angrier at, the men doing nothing or the men in charge who had sent them all to this hellhole in the first place.

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder broke the American's thoughts, and he looked up to find Walker standing above him and silently motioning for Alfred to follow him. Alfred watched the Australian heading away as he carefully transferred the British soldier to the Canadian's care. He neither expected nor received a 'thank you' from the man, but quickly got to his feet before jogging after Walker as he headed away from the crowded center of the trench.

The sounds of men asking others who was in charge, followed by others asking seniors to run down the list of officers who weren't dead, began to fade the further they travelled. Alfred obediently continued following Walker and passed by several Canadian soldiers stationed on guard along the trench, but never once earned their gazes. Soldiers were staring into the nothingness of the countless stagnant pools speckled in the mud; only they could see the reflections of the horrors forever replaying in their minds, while others were sprawled along the trench walls…eyes closed…with others too afraid to see if they were only sleeping.

Alfred's eyes kept trailing over the men sporadically positioned along the line, and more than once he saw large rats move amongst them without raising any alarm. He swallowed hard and looked ahead to find Walker by a wooden ladder leading up, and Alfred slowed his approach as he eyed the Australian and the slope wearily.

"What are we doing here?"

Walker's eyes were locked on Alfred's. "Showing you what men out here fight and die for," he began, and then stretched out his hand to Alfred. "Give me your rifle."

The American immediately bristled and his grip on his weapon tightened. He hadn't realized it until being confronted with the thought of losing it, but he was highly uncomfortable with the idea of being without his most relied-upon weapon. Not to mention he wasn't too keen on giving up his primary firearm to someone looking at him with such an expression of enigmatic resentment.

But his trust of Walker ultimately won, and he reluctantly thrust the rifle into the man's waiting hand. He watched as Walker removed something from one of the multiple pouches on his belt and finally attached a scope to the top of the weapon.

Alfred eyed it curiously before Walker returned the rifle, and then motioned for him to go up the ladder. The wide-eyed question on Alfred's face finally drew a response from the stoic Australian, "Just look east."

Nothing more passed between them until Alfred grasped the first rung and ascended the ladder. It took a lot not to stop and ask one more time if this was really a good idea to be popping his head over the top of a trench like this, but eventually he made it to the last rungs and carefully positioned the rifle over the edge first. As nothing happened, he carefully drew himself up the last few inches and graced the lip of the trench, then peered through the scope…

He had once walked through a section of forest in Tennessee that had been burnt to the ground by lightning after months of drought. The trees had looked like sable pillars of ash that could crumbled at a touch, and the earth looked like molten tar where the wind wasn't scattering the remains of the foliage that had settled there. The streams had dried to nothing and the rolling hills had been leveled. The only life to be seen came from the wisps of smoke curling up from the spiteful embers that still smoldered beneath the earth. The beauty of one of his nation's greatest natural havens had been reduced to a nightmarescape not even Edgar Allen Poe himself could have conjured.

And even that horrible memory…was like a captured shadow of a moment of paradise compared to what he saw in the scope.

Devoid of color – even the black of tar or the crimson of embers – the world beyond his scope was burning under the torment of invisible fire. Clouds too heavy to be fog and too old to be smoke obscured the endless countryside, as though a parade of ghosts were forever wandering the perpetually grey world. Monochromatic pikes stuck out of the ground like half-finished grave markers, and twisted coils of barbed wire rose from the earth like tangled serpents frozen in time. Every now and then the haze clinging to the intangible phantoms patrolling the grounds would thicken into pure white where it pooled in the craters and trenches left abandoned after the last engagements. There was no telling what lay hidden beneath the white…except maybe the portals to the deeper circles of hell lying beneath this Purgatory.

In the dead silence, shaking both from the sight and the cold, Alfred withdrew the rifle from its perch and looked at the world beyond without its aid. Beholding the sight on a larger scale did nothing to lessen its impact and Alfred felt terrible dread seeping into his soul, as if he knew it too would be departing him to join eternity in this place in the coming offensive.

This place…this terrible place…by God, what had humanity done?

A hand on his ankle and a sudden jerk wrested his stare from the horribly transfixing scene, and unable to bring himself to his senses in time, he hit the trench floor hard on his back and looked up at the man above him, breathless and in shock.

He was cold, pale and shaking. His eyes were wide and unable to focus until his companion crouched down and leveled his gaze at him. The American and Australian continued to lock eyes in silence until Walker finally gave voice to the world again.

"No man is ever saved out here. No man we delay death for will ever escape this place. Remember that the next time you're about to lose your temper, remember it still the next time you risk the safety and sanity of others to prolong the suffering of just one soul."

The words hit home and hurt him more than the fall had. Walker wrenched Alfred's rifle from him and stood, removing the scope before dropping the weapon next to the American's prone body. He left without another word, heading back to the group clustered further down the trench as Alfred remained where he lay and stared up at the charcoal sky.

Night was falling, but all the evening seemed to do was add an ominously darker tint to the nightmarish grey, and the sky might as well have been a reflection of the Purgatorial earth below it.

Alfred recognized the tears slipping down his face only too late.

* * *

_He was dying and being carried deeper into hell. Vice-like hands gripped him tightly as the demons drug him lower into one of the horrid circles. The agony consuming him never once ebbed, and all essence of time was lost in the flames of the inferno raging inside his body. He was past the point of recognizing anything happening around him; he couldn't differentiate between the screams inside or out, nor could he tell which flames were more painful – those under his skin or licking it._

_Still, he recognized hands upon him _– _but was powerless to fight them._

_Before long, or an eternity later, he was dropped on the ground that neither brought relief nor managed to give him a new pain to focus on. He wished he could be numb to it all already, but he was granted no such mercy as he weakly curled in on himself again – too exhausted to writhe any longer._

_And then _he_ was there…even through the pain there was no mistaking the shadow of that presence that invaded his shores and his being._

_He was closer now, somewhere above him, and it made his stomach roll._

"_This is what happens when you allow humans to dictate the sole rule of your country…and then turn human, yourself."_

_His body spasmed and something within him seized…and broke. Whatever inside of him that wanted to fight was extinguished, and all he could do was let out a stifled sob. He couldn't deny how much he hated those who had allowed this to happen, how much he wished they could share in this suffering and truly understand the depth of what their poor decisions had wrought. Yet at the same time he still felt shame – terrible shame for having allowed things to progress this far, for having failed the citizens of the city here and ultimately for being reduced to a crumbled mass at the feet of the British Empire. He had sworn at the start of the Revolution to never kneel at the feet of another master ever again…yet here he was, prone lower than even his knees beneath his last colonizer._

_If ever there were a moment he truly wished for death, it would be now._

_Hands were upon him again, but this time they were gentler and softer. A hand cradled his head, providing a cushion against the hard floor, as the other rested on his upturned cheek and strangely began wiping the tears away beneath his eye. For the first time since being thrown from his horse, Alfred managed to partially regain his vision and settle his unfocused gaze on the reddened outline of Arthur Kirkland, crouched above him and set against the backdrop of the burning Presidential Manor. _

_He couldn't make out the details of his face…but he knew enough to see that there was no smile there. There was neither victory nor triumph, no satisfaction for having avenged Canada and York painted on his expression. There was something akin to understanding, and worst…beneath it all…there was sadness. _

"_I knew you weren't ready for this…" He whispered so low Alfred could barely hear it over the crackling of the flames. "My heart burns with you."_

* * *

The beginning of the day and the assault began with the heralding of cannon fire, rather than the sun. Through the haze and smoke it was impossible to see the morning star presiding over the battlefield, and the putrid stench of the trench mixed with the heated stink of iron and gunpowder ensured no one had an appetite. The recommencement of the Passchendaele offensive after the seven-day pause had begun and the new mix of British and Dominion troops lined the trench, the first rows of each column of men with their hands positioned on the first rungs of the ladders leading into No Man's Land.

Alfred was among them, body listless where he stood in the third row in the sea preparing to crest the walls of the last Allied sanctuary between Ypres and Passchendaele.

His sky-blue eyes were grayed-over and dull. His face was ashen and dirty, and his hands looked as though they were clothed in brown gloves from having spent the past three days helping to reinforce the trench supports. He held his rifle in his hands, barrel and bayonet pointed at the ground, as he and the other soldiers waited.

Everyone would have a turn to ascend the ladder and take his first steps on ground level, and then pray he didn't end up six feet under again. It was a race to get to the first cover, the first dugout or mortar hole to take aim, fire and reload before racing forward again. The barrage of cannon fire behind them would have hopefully taken out as many enemy guns and Germans as possible, but whatever lay hidden in those pillboxes they all knew would remain untouched. Rifles, grenades, side arms, bayonets and combat knives were all any of them had to help them advance once artillery support ended…

Every shot had to count, and God help the man who went hands on with a bigger, faster opponent than himself.

"INFANTRY AT THE READY!"

Every head looked up at once, eyes front; no one dared to look back at the group selected to stay behind and shoot anyone who refused to pull himself out of the trench.

"GOD BE WITH YOU, LADS!"

God had nothing to do with this. Man had everything to do with this.

But the men who had nothing to do with this were the ones suffering for it, and Alfred's last thought before the signal was given was that Arthur had been right...

He let humanity get away with murder.

"CHARGE!"

And the screaming began.

_To Be Continued…_

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

Howdy again, ladies and gents! I had been promising action for a while, and I sincerely hope I have delivered. This chapter is a little shorter than the norm for this story, but given the heavy content of it and themes involved I hope you can forgive me for that. A lot of work went into putting this chapter together, and I want to thank my wonderful Beta editor, **Acqua-Toffana**; my British-History/British-Language consultant, **WrathoftheElite**; and **PapaJack1** for having aided me in finding Ypres historical documentaries. I also want to thank **Zombie4Pie **for all of her amazing fanart and motivating me through a serious writer's block (THANK YOU, DARLIN'!). Last but not least, I wanted to thank **KitakLaw** for bringing out the right emotions I needed at the right time to finish the hardest part of this chapter – and she has likely no idea she even did it. ;)

With credit given where credit is due…ON WITH THE NOTES!

-By the end of this chapter we have kicked off the final Battle of Passchendaele, which concludes the Third Battle of Ypres and "Act III" of this story. I have made the executive decision to cut the actual descriptions of the battle itself due to a number of reasons, but first and foremost being the intensity of the fighting having been so heavy and graphic in nature. While its not as though things haven't been rough, violent, and down right frightening up to this point already…there are some lines even I won't cross, and this is a pretty good example of one of them. I hope you can all forgive me for this, but I promise that even without the battle described in full the next chapter will not disappoint! As for the present, know that when the British reinforcements arrived at the Canadian's rally point it was during a 7-day break in the battle. The fighting on both sides had ceased for approximately a week to allow for regrouping, tending to the wounded and the dead, and finally for the British, Anzac and Canadian divisions to get into position for the final push for Passchendaele. The Canadians spearheaded the attack, flanked by French army units conducting strategic missions to the north, and secondary British units to the south. The aftermath of this battle will be detailed more so in the next chapter.

-Trenches. The trenches of WWI have been detailed a lot throughout this story, as trenches are one if not the most iconic images of the war. In this chapter the challenge was to describe actually being in a real working trench rather than the training trenches from chapter 7. Other than reading eye-witness accounts of the trenches, soldier journals and watching documentaries to get a true feel of what it would be like to make the made dash Alfred and Walker made, I also made a trip to Halloween Horror Nights October 2011 for the Nightingale House they had. It may sound reeeeeally silly, but I will honestly say that the whole reason I swallowed my fear (I'm a HUGE chicken with it comes to horror themes) and braved the terrors of HHN was to experience this WWI themed horror house where guests would run through a maze of trenches besieged by Banshees, undead soldiers, and ghosts, all in the middle of a battle between British and German soldiers. It was INTENSE! The sights, sounds and smells made the experience so utterly overwhelming, and the constant gunfire, bombs exploding and either demons popping out to grab you or British soldiers trying to save you was mind-blowing! Running through that trench was heart-pounding and scared the beegeezus out of all of us, and though it felt like an eternity trying to find our way out, it had really taken less than three minutes…And I was taking notes on my note pad right after.

How's that for fanfiction research? XD

-Edgar Allen Poe was an American writer and poet in the 19th century. His works were based in the horror, macabre, and (ironically enough) romantic genres. He is widely argued as one of the greatest writers who ever lived, and is known for works such as "The Raven", "Annabell Lee", "The Fall of the House of Usher" and many more. His life was about as tragic as his tales, and his masterful use of words to create the most terrifying and darkly-beautiful imagery really was something. To be frank, his stuff tends to edge on the freakishly dark even for me... :) but I respect a master of the craft.

-Maryland, 1814 – The second time in American history the nation's capital was invaded by the British (the first time during the Revolution), and the first and only time Washington was invaded and its government buildings burned were to the ground. During the beginning stages of the War of 1812, Americans had stormed the city of York in Canada, looting and burning the city. In retaliation for this, and once the Napoleonic Wars had been dealt with in Europe, the British crashed over American shores and were dead-set on acquiescing America's demands for attention. While intense fighting was concentrated to the west and south of the capital, mainly consisting of naval battles fought around the Chesapeake area, the bulk of the American ground forces were being moved further north towards Baltimore where everyone expected the British to concentrate their efforts. However, the British instead made landfall far south of this location and began a march on the undefended capital. A small group of fighters hastily formed a defensive position between the oncoming British and the town outside the city perimeter. Needless to say…the Battle of Bladensburg ended terribly, with unprepared and mostly untested American soldiers against hardened veterans from the Napoleonic Wars in Europe the Americans really stood no chance. The fall of Bladensburg paved the way for the British to move without resistance into Washington, where the city was seized and burned. In almost every American history book I have read this is considered one of the greatest military blunders in American history to date, and one of the most humiliating acts ever committed against the U.S. on the continental U.S. The burning of Washington was to demoralize Americans and make a point about how the British Empire dealt with those who threatened its interests and…well, to be frank America was really politically and socially pissing it off. To go into all the details of the War of 1812 could take up an entire fanfiction of its own, so I shall leave this summary as is for the time being and encourage all to research more on this often forgotten war on your own. :) It's worth doing!

-Shellshock/what we call PTSD today, like the trenches have been introduced before story…but like my divulging deeper into the trenches, I wanted to go deeper into what was mentally happening to the soldiers here. Once again turning to war diaries, soldier journals and documentaries, it became a working puzzle fitting the pieces of this dreadful picture. I also combined all of this research with having lived with my veteran father who had severe PTSD for the entirety of my life knowing him. To give the most detailed and realistic pictures I can, I try to add as much real life experience to my research, and weave it together with as much imagination as possible. I hope this has all translated well, in this example and others throughout the fic.

I've kept the notes brief this chapter and am happy to say that chapter 22 has been started. I'm working on it little by little in between a few short fic projects, school papers and the chaos of my life – but it's slowly, but surely happening. :) I want to thank you all so, so much for all of your continued support in reading, subscribing, and reviewing this and all my works; it really is inspiring to see so many enjoying my stories, and I cannot express my happiness enough, or how much it means to me. Thank you all again, and until next time!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty Two Characters:

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XXII

"_Et Tu_"

"Oi, you wanna smoke?"

Alfred blinked out of his daze and turned to see a man in a British uniform holding out a proposed cigarette. He stared as smoke from the already lit roll disappeared into the perpetual haze hanging over the outskirts of the now liberated village of Passchendaele, and it made the American's stomach churn. Even the falling embers from the end of the offering turned to colorless ash consumed by the gray, swept up in the fog that had only gotten thicker since the last battle.

More souls had been added to the already overcrowded realm damned to forever loom over this place. Every day that passed, Alfred felt it would only be a matter of time before that ever lingering realm and the reality he lived in merged to become one and the same.

The American shook his head and turned away, as the Brit shrugged and took a draw from the cigarette himself. The soldier watched as Alfred remained seated and hunched over on a cinderblock that made up part of the sea of rubble around them, and thought that the blond looked as many of the men who remained unassigned to a task did: removed from the world, utterly isolated, and lost.

Alfred had just come from helping to secure the ridges around the village, and now…had nothing to occupy him but his thoughts; and that was dangerous.

The final assault on Passchendaele three days ago had ended in a quasi-victory for the Allies, but none of the men had celebrated winning a deserted ghost town that no more resembled civilization than the No Man's Land they had traversed to get there. In the time after the assault, the troops who hadn't been tasked with scouring the village for bombs and traps, tending to the wounded or dead, or dealing with prisoners, had been sent to the still occupied high grounds to take out the remaining resistance. The entire operation had taken more time than anticipated, but eventually the French, British and Dominion units had finally made it through enemy lines, converged, and overwhelmed the remaining Germans. Like all victories in this war, it had been hard fought, hard won, and met with heavy casualties.

And Alfred still hadn't found Arthur.

Footsteps from behind made the British soldier, still trying to converse with Alfred, turn to find a Dominion soldier approaching. Though the man with the cigarette gave a smile, the gruff Australian walking towards him only eyed him suspiciously and did not return the greeting.

"Need something?" Walker asked brusquely.

The Brit raised an eyebrow and let the cig roll nervously between his teeth. He knew a lot of guys were edgy, especially the lot he and his company had come in on late last night after making it through the blockades to the south. None of his guys had gotten into the thick of the fighting on this end of the campaign…but most had seen a fair share elsewhere. The young Brit himself had been to Messines before being transferred back to a group bound for here. Still, British soldiers didn't have the best reputation for being friendly with their allies, but the lad tried.

"No," the young man replied, still teething the cig and carefully putting his hands in his pockets, one hand resting on the handle of a knife…just in case. "I was just tryin' to make conversation. The name's – "

Walker had already turned his back on him, angled towards Alfred. The British soldier felt offended by the sudden and very rude cutoff, but tried not to let it show as he felt he needed to be more understanding rather than hot-tempered. He took a few steps forward, but stopped immediately when the Australian suddenly drew and aimed a pistol at him. The soldier couldn't have been any more surprised, and the cigarette fell from his mouth.

"This will not be clearer. Walk away."

Alfred never moved during the exchange; he never even seemed aware of it.

The Brit gave the two one last look before setting his lips in a fine line. He didn't say another word while he backed away, and only at a safe distance did he turn on heel and vanish into the curtain of gray. When the Australian was sure he was gone he holstered his sidearm and took a seat across from Alfred, his back to one of the last remaining concrete walls still standing around Passchendaele.

While he was in position to watch Alfred's back, he'd have to watch his own since Alfred couldn't. The lad was pretty far-gone.

Walker removed a canteen from his back pouch and tossed it to Alfred, who only had a second to look before catching it clumsily. "Drink that."

The American gave the Australian a look before uncapping the container without further protest; but the moment he smelled its contents his brow furrowed and he scowled. Walker didn't seem too upset by it, however, since the lad's expression was something other than vacant.

"I think someone poisoned your supply."

"Indeed," Walker replied, pulling a small tobacco tin from the front pocket of his shirt and starting to roll a cigarette of his own. "Purposefully, I might add. I hate pommies, but they brought a load of supplies with them – some luxuries, too," he added, finishing his task before lighting one end of the cig and motioning with it towards the canteen. "That, my friend, is the best rum you're going to find this side of hell."

Alfred didn't look too pleased with that, or the pungently sweet smell of the tobacco from Walker's direction. Truth be told, he hated smoking. He knew nearly every class back home and abroad socially encouraged the habit, and here among the soldiers it was very popular; but personally he could never get into it. Other than the offensive smell and lingering taste he could never get over, the burning feeling it left in his mouth and lungs just reminded him too much of being burned alive. Looking down at the rum…he remembered why he hated this drink in particular too.

Sighing, Alfred capped the canteen and extended it back to his companion. "More for you, then…I'm not much of a rum guy."

The Australian made no move to take back the canteen and remained settled back against the wall, smoking his cigarette and comfortably resting one foot up on a neighboring rock. "I didn't make this a request, Jones. I told you to drink it."

Alfred kept his expression stern and didn't retract his arm. When it became clear he wouldn't, Walker withdrew his smoke and flicked some of the ash onto the ground. "I'll bet you haven't noticed that it's been almost a week since we got here. I'd double that bet that you haven't even noticed how fucking freezing it's been since the fighting stopped." He took his final draws on the cigarette before tossing it away when it had been burned to nothing. He appeared more relaxed as he took his time retrieving the tin to roll another; his eyes never leaving Alfred's as he watched confusion dawning over him.

"I'll also bet that you have no idea that you haven't moved from this spot since returning from the ridge last night."

The American's arm slowly began to shake and lower, as Walker's words forced him to reflect. He honestly couldn't remember anything relating to time…only events that all seemed to blur together in his head. There was a black hole in his memory that swallowed everything since God knew when. He remembered things here in France against the Germans, fighting alongside British soldiers…but it bled into memories of North America, fighting with the French against the British and Hessians. Bullets flying, bombs exploding and men screaming; whistles from projectiles falling from the sky and the earth opening its mouth to scream and swallow men whole. The sounds, smells, and even the commands from men of rank bellowing then as they did now… There were so many elements, so many similarities, and it was all colliding together in his head.

Was he fighting for the liberation of his ally or his own? Was he chasing out a foreign invasion on France's behalf or was he the one being invaded?

For a brief moment he couldn't think past the terror of not knowing whom he was fighting or what he was fighting for. The abyss in his mind only seemed to grow with the fear and his tremors worsened. He couldn't get enough oxygen, and in a rush of adrenaline he felt his body demand action, but his mind was unable to process how to channel it.

Run? Fight? Take cover? _From what_? Was there someone there?

Someone was repeating his name over and over again, and he finally looked past the yawning void of war-inflicted insanity to Walker still across from him. Their eyes locked, and somehow the surprising change in the Australian's expression brought some rational thought back to the American. Alfred hadn't seen many looks other than stoicism on the enigmatic man's face…but the sympathetic mien seemed to somewhat quiet the screaming in his head.

It confused him as much as it comforted him that a man like Walker could look…like that.

"You're a nation, but you're not any more immune to this than the rest of us. I told you before that looking back was dangerous…" he began, in a voice much softer than his usual gruff tone. Exhaling after a draw from his second cigarette, he then added, "So don't make me smack you; now, drink the rum."

Alfred gave a listless smile at that and seemed to calm slightly. His breathing evened, but his shaking only lessened in intensity as he eventually looked down and realized he was still holding the canteen of rum in his hand.

Rum wasn't his liquor of choice…it was Arthur's. He thought about that as he swirled the foul smelling drink in its container before he tipped his head back and drank from it.

Dear God, it was awful!

No sooner had the warm amber fluid poured into his mouth and the first swallow nearly drowned him, than his body was rejecting it and he yanked the canteen away. He sputtered and coughed, hacking as his entire mouth and throat burned and made his expression sour from the taste. Tears involuntarily pooled at the corners of his eyes and his nose ran. He couldn't see Walker laughing at him, but he could hear it over the hacking coughs.

When he could breathe again, albeit each breath still tasting like the foul liquor, Alfred gave Walker a look as he wiped his nose and eyes. "T-told you…that shit was poison."

The Australian waved his hand dismissively, still smirking and watching Alfred's recovery amusedly. "Poison for the sorrows, lad. Don't worry, let it settle and you'll feel better."

Alfred had had alcohol before, both of the more common and stronger sorts, but he really had no love of the stuff. Still, he took another swig and had to admit after a while that the burn was beginning to feel pleasant.

The two didn't say much as Alfred stomached as much of the rum as he could, and Walker finished off his last cigarette. Alfred was beginning to ignore the unpleasant smell of the tobacco in lieu of his newly dulled senses, which he knew meant he had probably drunk a bit more than he should have…but the warmth spreading throughout his body felt too good to resent.

He felt heavy and oddly sated, as though the alcohol was pickling his muscles, while his head felt oddly light. He noticed that his tremors had all but stopped, and his eyelids began to droop along with his hand on the canteen.

Maybe this was why Arthur liked this stuff…it made his brain too numb to remember anything for too long.

"So," Alfred finally began, slurring a bit and inelegantly capping the canteen. "What do we do now?"

"At the risk of sounding ungrateful for the peace, I daresay that's the longest I've ever been in your company without you talking," Walker commented, lounging almost comfortably back against his rock, as though it were a fine chair and not part of a desecrated village. "I was beginning to worry you were going to drink yourself unconscious."

Alfred frowned at that, telling himself that his face was mildly flushed because of the booze and not embarrassment. "I've drunk more than this and still managed to stay in the saddle," he retorted, feeling abnormally sloshed but still functional. "You still didn't…answer my question."

"So I didn't," Walker observed without interest.

Alfred waited for him to continue, but when he didn't the American grew impatient. "Well?" He said, and lightly kicked the side of Walker's boot.

Walker remained contemplative, but otherwise unresponsive. Alfred gave him another, stronger nudge, but this time Walker kicked back. "Stop it, Jones," he growled sternly. "You're not going anywhere for a while, so don't make this unpleasant."

Alfred's eyes narrowed, not liking that answer. "I notice you neglected to mention yourself in that sentence. So where are you going that I'm not?"

"Still feel like you need a babysitter?"

"I still feel like you don't trust me to handle jack shit."

Walker exhaled at that and lowered his gaze to the ground. He didn't necessarily look guilty about the accusation…just resigned. "You're wrong," the Australian began, "I do trust you, but right now you need to trust me."

Alfred returned a skeptical expression, but Walker cut him off before he could say anything. "I told you before that I had a job to do here in Belgium and I intend to see it through. An opportunity has presented itself…and I'm taking it."

The American blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the intoxicated fog, but still unable to keep the puzzlement from reflecting on his face. "Opportunity? What are you – "

"It's best you not know all the details," Walker interrupted.

Alfred sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing on the Australian. "Fine, don't tell me anything. But shouldn't I go with you to…to help?"

Walker remained grave and just shook his head. The silent response only served to frustrate Alfred further and the Australian saw this. He knew Alfred hated secrets, but he knew he hated the thought of being alone even more. Since separating from Arthur it had only been the two of them, and now Alfred would have no one…

Pushing himself to his feet, Walker stood and made his way over to the American. The lad looked torn between feeling lost and desperately trying not to. He was anticipating the goodbye, and that his only remaining companion was leaving, but he didn't look any more prepared for it than a child suddenly waking up from a nightmare, and finding himself alone.

Walker understood and placed a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred was doggedly averting his eyes away from him, and Walker gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Come on then, get up. The least I can do is get you back to some semblance of civilization before I up and leave…especially considering all that rum you drank."

Alfred snorted and didn't respond for a moment; when he finally made a decision and quickly got to his feet he nudged Walker's grip away, but only ended up knocking himself off balance.

His world was swimming and before he knew it his equilibrium abandoned him to gravity's mercy. Were it not for Walker quickly grabbing him under the arms and holding him steady, he would have kissed the dirt.

"About that saddle…it wasn't on an actual horse, was it?" Walker commented, and Alfred could hear the smirk in his voice.

Feeling slightly nauseous and really ticked, Alfred tried to shove Walker away again only to find himself unable to stand properly on his own two feet. Realizing he was completely dependent on the man's support if he wanted to remain upright, Alfred sputtered an indignant curse and glared at the Australian through his blurry vision. "Somethin' funny about your rum…"

Walker smirked humorlessly and pulled Alfred's arm around his neck. "Delusional with a drinking problem – maybe you really do need to keep a babysitter around," he said, and grabbed Alfred's gear pack, hauling it up onto his back with his other hand.

"Fuck you," Alfred bit back, hanging his head as he felt his body gearing up to punish him with a terrible hangover much sooner than he was ready for it – on the long walk back to basecamp.

* * *

Basecamp was situated in the heart of the last discernible remains of the city. The road leading up to the ruins of Passchendaele was a wash of mud and scattered mortar, speckled here and there with burnt timber. Rows of curled barbed wire bordered the area in just as much a defensive capacity as an imprisoning one, keeping unwanted people out and entrenched soldiers in. Toppled walls became makeshift ramps leading out of the seas of mud to the uneven plateaus of the area, while the still standing walls looked like giant grave markers. The solemn looming spires of what must have been a grand town wept blackened tears from their empty windows, against the eternal backdrop of the ever-present fog.

Living men dressed in filth-covered uniforms moved about in the shadows of Passchendaele's sorrowful atmosphere, carrying out task after task in efforts not to notice the world around them. Heavy crates were being offloaded from the backs of wagons drawn by horses and men, soldiers bearing sacks of provisions moved from building to building delivering supplies, and assistants fulfilling the orders of medics brought litters of wounded to and from the makeshift operating rooms. The smells of working men and rank decay were heavy, but few seemed to notice it; even the inebriated Alfred had lost his initial cringe reaction.

Walker navigated his intoxicated charge through the streets to what remained of a cathedral, and now served as a temporary housing facility and hospital for the troops in Passchendaele. The sad ruins of the church were hollowed out and barely had enough walls standing to be considered a shelter, but the weary troops resting on the floor on makeshift bunks made of pews and smoothed-out cinder blocks didn't seem to notice – they were either fighting off the reaper or in the process of accepting the inevitable. Alfred felt a chill race up his spine when Walker stopped beside the threshold and pulled him in and alongside the wall.

Alfred looked nervously between the Australian and the setting around them. His head was throbbing terribly, and while his balance was still left of center his sobriety was returning at a much faster rate than that of a human's. Still…he was abnormally tired and still strangely heavy and numb.

The numbness, however, did not extend to the chaos going on inside his mind as it once did, and he was at the mercy of the harsher reality around him once more. "Why here? Th-this isn't goodbye, isn't it?" He mumbled, still slurring a bit.

The Australian didn't say anything as he carefully eased Alfred down to sit against the wall, then stepped in front of him before setting the America's gear pack on the ground. Their eyes met and Alfred looked exhausted, but more frustrated than ever…and scared.

But this was the way it had to be. They both had promises to keep.

"I have already confirmed that Arthur is here, but right now I need you to understand that I can't keep you two together right now," he said, causing Alfred to blink rapidly as he tried to clear his mind and pay attention, but his focus was slipping terribly. Walker knelt down before the lad to make it easier on him, and grabbed his chin to help steady his gaze. "You're going to sleep for a bit, but trust me in that this will be for the best."

He could feel the tension coiling in Alfred's body, and the lad was shaking again. However much Alfred had drunk, his metabolism was burning through the concoction faster than intended and that made both the farewell and Walker's job harder – especially when realization sparked in Alfred's hazy eyes and his trembling hand reached up and latched onto Walker's wrist, though his intended tight hold failed. Alfred should have been knocked out by now, but the kid was resisting it…

Walker's expression never changed, but Alfred's did, and it hurt to see the confusion and growing betrayal. "…What…have you done?"

"I'm saving your life," Walker replied at length, removing Alfred's hand and standing above the fading American. "I made a promise to do all I could to watch out for you for as long as I was able, and I'm fulfilling that. You've done well, Jones, and I know your brother would be as proud of you as you should be of yourself, but right now I need to get you safe in a place where we won't be chancing anything else happening to you."

Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing or what was happening. His body, which had been feeling increasingly like lead, was now so heavy he couldn't even raise the arm Walker had brushed aside. His chest felt heavy and the harder he fought to stay awake, the harder it was to breathe. He had never felt this kind of reaction before, not from booze or anything else. He knew the alcohol had worn off by now…there had been more to that drink, but he couldn't fathom what since he had never known any component that could affect his kind like this.

Looking up to the Australian now, as he had when his madness had descended on the outskirts of the city, he felt nothing but contempt for the man he had once trusted.

"It'll wear off soon enough, so take advantage of the rest while you can," Walker said, giving Alfred one last look before he fell silent. It wasn't long before he turned towards the cluster of medics triaging patients not far from them, giving Alfred one last pat on the shoulder before departing. "Take care, Jones."

Alfred watched the Australian's back becoming more and more obscured by the commotion and the fog, and stopped breathing as a part of him remained waiting for the man to turn around and come back, telling him that he should have seen the look on his face before proceeding to give him that condescending smirk of his.

It was all just a test at best and an insincere joke at worst…

But the nation part of him, the part that felt burning anger and the sting of the dagger in his back, knew better. Whether done out of a personal sense of the greater good or not, Walker had abused his trust and deceived him.

Continuing to stare where Walker's outline had vanished, the logic of Alfred's rational side began bleeding over his hope. Walker was a man of his word – blunt and sincere about everything, including his betrayal.

It was Alfred's last conscious thought before he slipped beneath the power of the drug, and the world was lost to him.

* * *

"_Francis!" _

_His bellow echoed down every corner of every hall leading to the officer's stateroom, located atop the Yorktown fortress. The garrison now housed every prisoner of war taken in the surrender following the last great siege of the port city, including the embodiment of the British Empire himself. It also housed the two allied avatars of the fledgling United States and greater Kingdom of France, the first of which was currently out for the blood of the other._

_When the young man burst through the door into the stateroom several American and French officers jumped, but the immortal gentleman seated at the head of the committee never so much as glanced up from his work. He remained comfortable and slightly askew in his chair, his legs crossed and elbow resting upon the table, with his chin atop the back of his hand. He looked contemplative and unhurried in contrast to the humans in attendance, who looked ready to sully their trousers. Most turned sheet white at the sight of the young America's red-faced and enraged appearance, his body coiled and ready to explode into violence at any moment as his eyes focused and narrowed on the uncaring Frenchman._

"_All of you get out!" Alfred ordered, not caring who the hell any of them were and throwing protocol to the wind._

_Several sprang into action and followed the command at once, but the few hesitant stragglers looked worriedly towards Francis, who finally looked up with a bored expression and quietly dismissed them without enthusiasm. The room quickly cleared and the door closed, leaving the two nations alone but for the thick atmosphere of tension in the room._

"_You convinced me into agreeing to his confinement here, but you guaranteed me that my instructions about no bondage would be honored. Yet I have returned just this morning to find that not only has this directive not been obeyed, but also that no one has followed through with basic prisoner care in bringing him food and water or checking on his wellbeing. Why?" He demanded, not bothering to keep his voice down, or the animosity from his tone._

_Francis sat back in his chair, his fingers laced in his lap and his expression blank as he met Alfred's fury with nothing more than indifference. He allowed Alfred a few breaths before finally replying, "Because that is how this is done, Alfred, and I knew you would not agree to it had you known."_

"_Of course I wouldn't have agreed to it!" Alfred screamed, approaching now and throwing an arm up in anger with his eyes narrowed on Francis. "Who would possibly agree to this? This is cruel and inhumane treatment and I wouldn't allow this on anyone, especially not a man who hasn't offered any resistance since his surrender. Are there not rules to the treatment of prisoners of war that are to be followed? What of them, huh? That aside, _Francis_, Arthur is one of us!"_

_Francis never once reacted._

"_Precisely." _

_Breathing heavily and sweating, exhausted both from the mad dash to get this far and from all the emotions running through him, Alfred shook his head to clear what he was convinced must have been a fog and stared at Francis uncomprehendingly. "Excuse me?"_

_His eyes never leaving Alfred's, Francis leaned forward in his seat and placed his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his intertwined hands as he spoke. "Arthur is one of us. He is immortal, incredibly strong, influential, and cannot be controlled. He is something our enemies revere and our men fear…he is as much a symbol as he is a physical threat. To contain that threat, our enemies and our men must see that he is, in fact, contained," Francis stated calmly, casually, and without any sympathy for the man in question. Alfred couldn't take his disbelieving eyes from him as the Frenchman continued, his words only twisting his stomach further. "So we will imprison him, keep the chains and manacles on, and starve his body so that it is weak and unable to fight. Mortal prisons are scarcely equipped to hold beings such as us, and therefore it is necessary to take extreme measures when detaining those of our kind."_

_The American stood mortified and speechless. He stared at Francis as though he were seeing the horrible man behind the handsome visage for the first time in his existence. In all of his years he had never heard such apathy towards the plight of another life. The Francis he had been told about during his years as Arthur's ward were stories of a selfish, greedy man who cared only for himself and all the insignificant fineries of life. When he finally met the man in person during the early years of his Revolution, he learned that Francis had as many positive and selfless qualities as he bore selfish ones. There was little love lost between him and Arthur, he knew, and it was clear that there was more to Francis aiding him in his fight than just snubbing his English rival… But this…_

_Was there no brotherhood, no camaraderie in being amongst the ranks of their kind? Was there no compassion even in the aftermath of bitter war? Even he, the one who had declared war on Arthur and his empire, had forgiven and felt both loss and sympathy for his former mentor. Should not Francis, a man who had known Arthur far longer and been on both the winning and losing sides of war many times, been empathetic towards his fellow European brethren?_

_Shouldn't he too understand what it felt like…to lose a son?_

"_No…" Alfred whispered, his throat tight and voice shaking beneath the terrible thoughts and emotions coursing through him. He swallowed and fought hard to convey what he felt he needed to for his own sake, if not Arthur's. "I can't condone this. I can't allow this maltreatment to continue."_

"_Alfred, I assure you that this is necessary – "_

"_It is torture!" Alfred screamed._

"_It is war and no nation has ever claimed victory without the subjugation of the defeated."_

"_What is there to subjugate? He has already surrendered, and negotiations for the empire's surrender are already en route to England. This treatment serves no purpose other than to abuse and humiliate – "_

"_And solidify your place as a nation above the man you once called master," Francis interjected, his eyes darkening and voice sharpening to cut through Alfred's hysterics. "The moment you declared war you were no longer a colony but a combatant, and now that your sovereign's swords have fallen you must make an example of strength to keep those who might seek to take up those arms again from doing so."_

_Alfred hesitated for the first time and Francis pounced on it, placing his hands on the table as he rose to his feet and stared the younger man down. "Our armies are exhausted, our coffers are dry and your leaders are still trying to collect themselves in the wake of two hard-fought campaigns. If England were to even consider sending more troops here to the colonies for a counterattack, now would be the time to do so. If you want to be a truly independent nation, as you so convinced me before, then be prepared to do _all_ that is necessary to prove to England and the world that you are capable of winning your freedom, and worthy of having every beautiful blood drenched glory that accompanies it. This, _Amérique_, is the harsh reality of what it means to be '_one of our kind_'."_

_The silence that followed resonated painfully in every pore of the motionless lad's being. Alfred could not avert his eyes from the terrible intensity of Francis's stare any more than he could stop the horrible ugliness of his words from continuously echoing in his mind. He knew a long time ago that the price of freedom was paid in blood, and that taking a stand against his sovereign would gain him enemies the world over. He had been prepared for that…he had accepted that…he would live with that for the rest of his long, long life…_

_But this…_

"_Do you honestly believe all we have accomplished will be undone…unless we reduce ourselves to monsters who persecute one man?"_

_The earnest question gave Francis pause, but Alfred didn't wait for him to answer before turning on heel and heading for the door once more._

"_Your name isn't Kirkland anymore, Alfred," Francis spoke harshly, but the desperation beneath was only more proof that it was a last ditch effort to validate what he had done._

_"It doesn't have to be," Alfred bit back, throwing a look over his shoulder before adding. "Even Matthew would not have wanted this."_

_He barely took note of how stiff the elder became before making his exit, and slamming the door._

* * *

The terrible jolt of his head hitting a solid surface ripped him back into the world of the gray. His eyes shot open with a start and he gasped, but the foul air filling his mouth and lungs caused him to seize and cough violently. He vaguely felt his boot hit something malleable, but responsive before hands reached down and quickly grabbed him.

His eyes were screwed shut again, unable to take in even the ghastly muted light of the putrid realm of fog obscuring the sky, but continued to fight on instinct when even more hands tried to arrest his movements.

"Woah, son, easy! Calm down, lad!" Someone was hurriedly saying to him.

"Relax mate, we're not your enemies!" Another added frantically, and suddenly both of his arms were grabbed and pinned to the floor with someone looming over him.

A new commotion began to stir from angry male voices beyond wherever he was, and the agitated whinnies of horses painfully pierced his ears. For people claiming not to be his enemies, they certainly were causing him a great deal of distress and hurt – and frankly he'd had enough of both.

The only warning the man on top of him got was the coiling of Alfred's muscles before the American's knee drew up to his chest and his boot let loose in his detainer's chest, sending him sailing out of sight.

His senses heightened by the panic and the adrenaline rush, Alfred was no sooner watching three more men in olive colored uniforms pile into what appeared to be the bed of a wagon with him, than he sprang to his feet and rushed one of them to create an escape route away from the crowd. Avatar and human landed in a heap on the ground after a decent fall, and Alfred tucked and rolled before righting himself and turning to see exactly what the hell was going on.

Before him was a dark green wagon with a large red medic's cross painted on the side, being drawn by two very frantic looking horses. Three soldiers with British insignias on their uniforms were scrambling out of the bed he had just vacated, and were either staring at him in disbelief or arguing with the medic up front, who was screaming about minding the patient cargo. Alfred found himself completely dazed and taking a step back as he beheld a stretch of these same kinds of wagons going on endlessly into the fog on either side of him.

It was a medical caravan, and it looked like they were heading away from the front.

"Corporal Quinton, I need you to relax an calm down…"

A new man entered Alfred's line of sight, another medic approaching him as though he were some crazed wild animal. Alfred didn't understand why he was addressing him with that name, but clearly there had been a grave misunderstanding all around…

"Corporal Quinton?" Alfred questioned, looking even more perplexed and trying to clear the terrible headache plaguing him. "S-sorry, but I think you have the wrong guy."

Still conducting himself with caution, the medic continued his slow approach with an even more sympathetic expression. "It's alright, Corporal, I understand…You've suffered a lot of trauma and a pretty bad head wound, from what your friend told us. We're going to help you, but you need to trust us and get back in the transport."

Alfred stopped cold and felt his veins freeze over. Like a rush it all came flooding back to him, and he remembered Walker, the rum, and his betrayal…and suddenly he was angry again.

Even stronger than his anger was the mounting fear that something had happened or was about to happen to Arthur, because he had fallen for Walker's deceit. He couldn't let that happen, he had to find a way back to the city and fast.

"Corporal…you need to take some deep breaths and just understand that it's alright now and that we're taking you – "

"I'm not going anywhere but back to Passchendaele," Alfred cut in, unable to contain the shaking built up from the fury he felt. "I'm not supposed to be here, I have to go back!"

The medic warily took another step towards him and nodded, keeping both hands raised and before him for Alfred to see he was unarmed. Alfred understood the gesture, considering he had had a less than peaceful reaction when he woke to what he guessed was being jostled over the uneven ground the wagon was traversing, but honestly he had no time for this.

A group of officers on horseback came galloping up the line, coming to check on what the commotion and hold up was about, and Alfred found himself eyeing them before he heard several bolts being drawn back on rifles some of the soldiers on the wagon had armed themselves with.

"Many men here would love to join you," the medic began, trying to quickly keep the situation from further escalation and redirect Alfred's attention back to him. "But right now you're no good to anyone with your head injury and need to return to Arras with us for medical attention. Come on, David, no soldier is immortal."

Alfred's eyes narrowed and he finally threw his arms up in frustration, "You're right, but I'm pretty damn close and I'm going back!" He startled the medic when he suddenly stalked forward, ignoring the soldiers aiming their weapons at him and ordering him to stop.

The riders had drawn close enough and a man in flanking position on a dark brown thoroughbred turned in Alfred's direction. With skill gained during his years of living and learning to survive in his West, Alfred dislodged the man from the saddle and leapt onto the horse with fluid ease. He grabbed the reins when the animal started from the sudden change in weight and command, but Alfred quickly dug his knees into the sides of the animal, sharply tugged the reins and spurred the beast into breaking formation and tearing off towards the end of the caravan's line.

The shouts behind him faded faster than the sounds of gunfire, but Alfred remained undeterred from his course and kept the horse moving fast and pulling away from the convoy that was sure to start raising an alarm. But in reality, what could they do? Their mission was to remove the casualties from the fighting as quickly as possible, not reengage in more at the risk of lives. Alfred knew they would not have the manpower or the drive to pursue him, but he had both the strength and terrible motivation to get the hell back to Passchendaele.

Walker had betrayed him. The man had used his trust to remove him from his mission and separate him from Arthur for reasons he didn't know, nor felt he needed to. Right now he had to get back to the city and find Arthur – he had to warn him in case Walker had taken him out of the situation in order to carry out something against him.

* * *

Dusk was quickly turning into thicker darkness by the time Alfred returned to the city. He raced down the main road and ignored the startled shouts from men for him to slow down or stop riding in the thoroughfare. He was continuously scanning the crowds for any sign of Arthur or possible evidence of him, such as a cluster of high-ranking soldiers or any groups in formation waiting to move out.

The initial search began to prove fruitless and he was attracting more unwanted attention than not; finally he was forced back from his task when someone grabbed and jerked the reins of his horse. The animal, already exhausted and irritable, bayed and spun with the motion as Alfred glared down at the man daring to stop him. His annoyance ebbed enough for his surprise to seep through when he recognized the man – the British soldier – who had offered him a cigarette before Walker turned him away.

"You sure carry yourself with a lot of purpose for a man without much sanity left," the Brit commented, eyeing Alfred with just as much surprise and a hint of wariness. "You're going to trample someone riding through here like that."

Alfred tried to ease his tightened jaw and fight the urge to yank the reins from the man's hands. "Look, I'm trying to find someone and then I'll be out of here. Maybe you can help me?"

The Brit frowned and snorted, apparently still a bit sore from his earlier treatment for trying to help him last time. "Your prick Aussie chum isn't here. I distinctly remember that face leaving with the Londoner's company earlier."

Alfred gave a start at mention of 'the Londoner'; he couldn't think of any other upper-crust Englishman's unit Walker would be interested in joining the ranks of other than Arthur's.

"This Londoner in charge of the group, do you know his name or what he looked like?" Alfred asked anxiously, fearing the worst and between hoping he pegged Arthur and praying he didn't.

The soldier seemed perplexed and then suspicious. He suddenly looked between Alfred's uniform and his face and tightened his hold on the reins. "Where are you from and who are you with? You've got a Dominion insignia, but you don't sound or act like any kind of soldier I've ever met here."

Now Alfred was getting frustrated and even more frantic. What did it matter where he was from or that his uniform was all wrong? For God's sake, he was trying to save more lives than this man could possibly hope to comprehend!

"I don't have time for this!" He suddenly burst out in exasperation. The Brit looked much more on guard now, but Alfred ignored it and leaned down from his mount, and pleaded – he didn't know what else to do. "Please, I beg you to tell me what you know and let me on my way before it's too late for me to save someone I _need_ to! Who was the man leading that group?"

Though he said nothing for a pause, the soldier's conflict showed on his face. Everything about Alfred's actions and his suspicious person were warning flags that dictated he be detained and brought before someone of authority. However, the clear urgency and genuine distress made the Brit hesitate. He had a hard time believing that something truly drastic hadn't happened to cause the listless shell he saw before turn into this determined would-be rescuer now.

His eyes diverted from Alfred for only a second to see that they had attracted the lasting attention of many – soldiers and what looked to be a corporal down by the street who was suddenly making his way over. The Brit's expression tightened, but slowly his grip on the horse's rein's relaxed and he took a step closer.

"Look, I don't know the guy's name, but he had to have been someone of rank to have had the attention of every star here. I don't know if he came in with the British Second or not, but I do know he's been the guy bringing back one Fritz after another from the ridges and now it looks like he's got a detail moving them out," he said quickly and quietly, looking away only for a moment to spot the corporal again before picking up the pace. "My guess is that they'd be heading for the prison camp west of here, so head back out to the other side of town and just keep following the trench line straight out. They've got a good few hours start on ya, but they'll have a large cargo to move so that's in your favor."

Alfred felt his heart leaping into his throat as he tried to swallow it back down and nodded rapidly. "Thank you, oh God, thank you so much," he replied, hurriedly righting himself in the saddle and tugging the reins to turn the horse back towards the path that would hopefully lead him to Arthur.

But before he could go, he felt a sharp pull at his leg and looked back down to see the soldier looking up at him. His expression was still tight and worried, but he also had a resigned feel about him and it was all Alfred could do not to push him away and ride off.

"You're not Canadian, regardless of the uniform, and you're sure as hell not British, mate, even with the those tags around your neck."

Alfred stopped and suddenly looked down at his chest…and couldn't believe his eyes. He was alarmed to find his accustomed silver dog tags were missing and a set of tri-plated discs now hung around his neck. The urge to rip the foreign things off and inspect them was strong, but he didn't have time. He looked back at the Brit still curiously observing him.

"Who did I just get myself court martialed for?"

For the first time in God knew how long, Alfred completely blanked on how to address himself. It was almost as if he couldn't remember his name or his allegiance any more than he could explain how this insanity began. He felt the echoes of the same old panic he had felt in that moment with Walker when the confusion and memories had threatened to overwhelm him, but like a slap in the face the present came rushing back to him and everything was in focus.

There was the smell of gunpowder and smoke all around him, and the smell of leather and horse beneath him. He felt the reins in his hands and each breath of the animal anxiously pawing at the earth under him. There was a rifle alongside the saddle and a trench knife still sheathed on his belt. He had a direction now, only moonlight to work off of and he was running out of time to catch up with a man he was suppose to be watching out for, and a man who'd stabbed both of them in the back. They were in the middle of a war, but that all seemed secondary to finding and protecting Arthur.

Yeah…protecting Arthur…England…his ally.

"I'm America," he finally responded, his gaze lost for a moment before his conviction with his statement grew and he looked down at the Brit, flashing him a smirk. "I seem to keep forgetting that, but thanks for your help. If they give you a hard time, just tell them I forced you to talk."

The soldier seemed thunderstruck and, reeling, looked up at Alfred like he was mad. "Forced me? Wait, you're American!"

"Yep, so make sure to make the story a good one," Alfred replied, chuckling. "We're known for being a little crazy."

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

_Notes From the Author_:

;~; You all came back! Oh Lawd, I cannot thank you all or apologize enough! I know it's been a while since my last update, but a lot has been going on in my life beyond my control and it has kept me from my usual speedy updates. Since my last chapter went up: I have moved into my own place, graduated from my University, went through a very long internet-less drought, my family has moved to another state, my birthday just passed less than a week ago, and I am now in the process of changing from nights to days at work. Needless to say, this stress has taken a toll on my writing and sadly me. I thank you all so much for your patience and pray this chapter was worth the wait. I hope to have the next one out as soon as possible, and hopefully when things have settled in my life that will translate to a far shorter time period than this last wait.

I wish to sincerely, sincerely thank my amazing editor **Acqua-toffana**, for not only editing this in the unconventional manners I've been giving it to her, but for also editing it late at night during a convention in the middle of Tampa. ;~; You have my eternal thanks, darling! Also, a special thanks to **ProperBritishGent** for looking over these notes for coherency, as they were written at 3am EST in a dimly lit hotel lobby on the last day of MetroCon. oTZ Bloody hell, I'm beat; '**Gent**, you're a lifesaver!

I also wish to thank **KitakLaw**, **Zombie4Pie**, **ScarletteDiscord**, **ProperBritishGent**, and **X-I-L2048 **for the wonderful birthday gifts and wishes – most of which can be viewed on my profile page. ;w; Thank you so much, I love you all!

ON TO THE NOTES!

-I opted not to detail the entire battle of Passchendaele for multiple reasons, predominate of which dealt with the intensity of it, number of lives lost and length of time it took. The initial battle for the city itself took less than a day, however it took several more days to take control of all of the remaining ridges surrounding the area and truly take control of Passchendaele. Canadian divisions backed by British troops, with a combination of AZNAC, French, and more British troops conducting operations in flanking positions that converged on the focal area, led the initial assault. The total number of casualties for both sides was very high, and the damage to the once flourishing city of Passchendaele was nearly total.

-Alright, the drug Walker used on Alfred will be detailed a little later but for now I will only allow the alcohol really did amplify its affects. That said, I really do believe that Alfred (especially at this point in history) is a bit of a lightweight when it comes to heavier liquors. He handles beer and ale well enough, but higher proof booze isn't something he's used to drinking – so even with a higher metabolism he's not immune, just faster to recover. XD Silly boy.

-Second note on Walker: the betrayal. I have gotten a lot of feedback on this character telling me how many people really enjoy him and I cannot tell you all how much that has meant to me. Let it be known that I greatly love this character and he is not a man who does things without reason…good reason. ;~; I hope you all and Alfred will understand that.

-The flashback is directly tied to the aftermath of the Battle of Yorktown, detailed in the prequel to this fic, "_You Were So Small_". After Cornwallis's surrender, following the siege of Yorktown (the last official battle of the American Revolution), Arthur was taken prisoner in the garrison along with the remaining British soldiers who survived. During that time Alfred became Arthur's only advocate for fair treatment, but his kind efforts were mostly in vain as Arthur never reciprocated his compassion – and thus Alfred was forced to accept the rift of their new relationship for the first time. Francis during this period is also present, helping to aid America and Alfred in establishing the new government and negotiate the end of the war with England. However, his very harsh demeanor towards Arthur steams greatly from the still fresh wounds of the Seven Years War, where he was forced to concede his colony, New France, and other wealth to the British empire to salvage other areas of his own empire. Personally, for Francis, loosing Matthew as he did to Arthur was as devastating for him, as it would be for Arthur to loose Alfred in such a manner. My head-canon does NOT have this translate to France entering the American Revolution as a revenge tactic for Canada, but for Francis it is an added personal factor. The bad blood between him and Arthur runs deep, but the events of the Seven Years War, specifically with what happened with Canada, have taken things to a whole new level for Francis at this point in history. He isn't kidding when he says that the imprisonment, bondage, and starvation aren't standard tactics for weakening and confining one of their kind, but he is being far less affected by the inhumanity of it because it's happening to the man who killed him and essentially took his son from him. So…take Francis's point of view into consideration before judging him too harshly… ;~; Geez, I'm just making a villain of everyone in this chapter, aren't I?

-Yes. I think Arthur has a very lovely Londoner accent. XD I loved it while I was there…and it stuck. Sue me.

-Yay, hero moment here! Yes, I've been getting many comments asking when Alfred was going to have a break out hero moment, aaaaaand here's #1~ I had to slap that Western vibe in there because its not so much a part of Alfred's past in this time period, as it is what he was doing quite a bit of before his return to the Washington scene before the break out of WWI.

-Ah, and if you haven't guessed yet, those tags Alfred is now wearing are actually from the British soldier who entrusted them to Alfred at the hospice in the French village. Walker switched them with Alfred's American dog tags while he was unconscious…no telling where his true dog tags are now.

Ladies and gents, this concludes the notes for this chapter and I apologize for anything I've missed. As always, you are all free to message me with questions if you have any and I will answer them as soon as possible. Thank you so much to everyone for reading, subscribing, and reviewing! To my reviewers, I am trying so hard to reply to you all and thank you so, SO much for your patience! You all are so wonderful and I cannot thank you enough! ;w; Stay classy, my friends~ Until next time!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Depictions of War, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty-Three Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

_**-Never Your Hero-**_

Chapter XXIII

_"Guardian Devil"_

_The tent was so quiet not even the war outside seemed able to penetrate the stillness. The Field Marshal sat in his canvas chair behind the field of maps laid out on his desk and stared at the landscape without seeing it. His hazel eyes were darkened and downcast, with his hands in his lap and his expression grim. He hadn't said a word since Arthur had finished explaining everything…it was still trying to sink in for both of them._

"_I never thought that things had deteriorated so badly…worse still, I had not expected our high command to react to it like this."_

_Arthur didn't respond. Instead, his eyes remained focused on the map of the French – Belgian boarder and the drawn lines of orange and red, where the reinforcing troops of the British Second would be in just a few hours time._

"_Did they not consider that the disastrous results of the first attempt had been proof enough that this plan had always been a terrible idea?" the old man continued, his voice hardening now as his eyes ghosted over Bullecourt. _

"_The idea itself wasn't terrible," Arthur replied in monotone. "Just the execution."_

"_Is that what you would have told the men of the first team?" Plumer countered hotly. "How about all of the people who died as a result?"_

_The silence held again before Arthur finally turned away from the table. He didn't want to look at the unmarked graves anymore. "They should have never been sent. Haig should have sent me, alone, from the start."_

"_You said it yourself, Arthur, you were in no condition then any more than you are now," Plumer returned, his temper rising. "This entire plan should have never been authorized or undertaken by anyone – especially not one of your kind. The danger posed when your lives are endangered is far too great, even for gains like this. This war should be fought by men, human soldiers, and not beings whose lives could have devastating repercussions on entire populations." _

_Arthur wanted to smile at that, but couldn't overcome the heaviness of his expression. His back was to the Field Marshal, but he could see the human's anguish so clearly. The old man was one of the few people in this war who truly cared about the lives involved in this war…especially his. _

_Plumer's distress was something Arthur wished all men in power honestly felt. Too often did troops under a command cease to be people and simply become statistics; and Plumer understood that, recognized that, and was ever conscious of it. That pain was what kept him both an officer and a person. To Plumer, Arthur wasn't just one life, he was many. He was every man who had ever marched under his command and every soldier who would replace him. He was every young man in a trench writing a letter to loved ones and asking his commanding officer to see that it got home safely. Arthur was also home, the place where loved ones dwelt; he was every father, mother, brother and lover who had ever opened those final letters or still had someone to wait for. _

_Unlike so many in or above his position, Field Marshal Plumer saw Arthur and his kind for what they really were…not weapons or additional statistics, but the bodies protecting the living, beating hearts of people._

_It was why Arthur trusted the man as he did, and knew he would do the right thing._

"_I know that if you had your way, I'd be locked in the Tower of London for the rest of my existence. I thank you for the rare kindness behind that thought."_

_Plumer had hunched forward in his chair, his elbow resting on the arm of it as his hand hid his face. He was tired and his eyes and body reflected it. So many lives had been lost so needlessly, all on gambles and now cover-ups. So many more lives were at stake and for all his power he could do nothing to stop this tragedy in motion. He had been on one battlefield or another nearly all of his adult life, but nothing could have prepared him for the damning metaphysics that changed everything concrete about the human ways of warfare._

"_Tell me, Arthur…why did you let me send him out there, likely to die?" _

_Arthur tensed, but otherwise remained unresponsive as the old man raised his head and sat back in his chair to get a better look at the Englishman. _

"_I gave that order because my men need help, and now you and this boy are all I've got. I won't lie in saying that his death won't hurt the men or me as much as yours would, but I no more want to see my allies die than you. So tell me, why did you let me do it?"_

'Because, it's what Alfred wanted…and no matter what century we're in, I cannot bear to watch him fall with my own eyes.'

_Arthur pushed off the table, his belt heavy and fully equipped with gear, as he bent down to take up his rifle leaning against one of the many crates littering the tent. His helmet was hanging off the side of the chair he'd been occupying earlier while reporting the events leading up to this moment to Plumer, and he paused with it in hand before strapping it onto his head._

_Dawn was coming, and he had to be gone before then. He'd be ahead of the British Second before they took to the route leading them to Passchendaele; he had business there that needed to be taken care of before the bulk of the army arrived._

"_You asked me before why I had concerns for a soldier fighting in war – I don't. My only concern was for Alfred, but he has made it more than clear that he needs no concern of mine to make his own decisions. Though I question the wisdom behind most of his choices, I cannot govern his actions…I lost that responsibility a long time ago."_

_Now it was time to accept that._

"_An avatar and a team of highly trained operatives already failed to complete this assignment; are you really going to attempt this on your own?" Plumer questioned, and the wariness in his voice could not go undetected._

_This time, Arthur really could smile; but it was bitter and cold, not so unlike how he felt at the moment when thinking about what he was about to do._

"_Not many, even among my kind, can say they have the blood of nations on their hands…but I can," he replied, and grabbed the gear sack at the mouth of the tent before hefting it onto his shoulder. "And I've got more personal motivations for seeing this through than anyone they've sent before or would have sent in after me."_

* * *

A sharp stabbing pain in his side forced him back from semi-consciousness. His face contorted for a moment, but soon relaxed as he released one hand from the reins in favor of holding the tender area. He didn't feel the customary saturation of the past few days and gave a soft sigh of relief. The frail skin surrounding the old wounds of Somme felt overly stretched every time he breathed, and the muscles beneath were sore from the old ache. The plague of it had lessened considerably since reawaking in Arras, but over the past few days he knew his health had returned to a state much similar to what it was before his body had shut itself down to repair.

Satisfied he wasn't bleeding again; Arthur shook the sleep from his mind and tried to take in his surroundings before concentrating on the man walking beside his horse.

"Sir, I'm sorry to wake you, but one of the scouts has returned and says it's urgent he speak with you."

Arthur blinked away the last of his fatigue and tried to focus in on the messenger's report. Hours ago he had sent a three-man party to investigate the vicinity around this desolate wasteland. He knew the Germans were aware of the existence of his group…and that had been the point. Now it was a waiting game to see if that knowledge would draw them, and more importantly _him_, out.

This far into Allied territory only the best and most specialized extraction teams would be used, and since the word was out that someone with information on the wanted American was on the detail, chances of his target showing up were even greater.

"Bring him forward and don't make a scene about it," Arthur ordered, tucking his dog tags that had fallen out of his uniform back into place.

Night had fallen and the convoy was still moving undeterred behind him. There was another mounted British officer beside him (his supposed security) who had also fallen asleep during the trip, and was slumped forward in his saddle. The Englishman ignored him and quickly glanced at the procession behind him, taking mental inventory of the line.

The German prisoners were still walking in a single column between armed guards along the row and flanking them from behind. There were a few other mounted officers positioned in a circumference around the lot, and all of them seemed to be fighting sleep or losing to it. It was still a long way until they reached the first working rail-lines, and none of the volunteers present had had much of a break in between the fighting at Passchendaele and this assignment, but they all needed to keep their heads about them now more than ever. If this scout returned and confirmed what he had been suspecting…and hoping for, then the silence wouldn't last much longer.

The thick fog made the details difficult until the man neared, but soon a British soldier came jogging up to him, sporting a limp and panting heavily. Arthur eyed the man carefully and was surprised to see that he looked more like a man who'd been on the losing end of a tussle rather than a gunfight.

"Did you find them?" Arthur asked first, halting his horse and letting the man catch his breath.

The soldier finally gave up on speaking and nodded, hunching forward with his hands on his knees before he teetered and fell into the horse of the sleeping officer beside Arthur. Beyond startling the animal and waking the slumbering bloke, no damage was done.

But Arthur was getting impatient.

"One. J-just one, sir," the man managed, righting himself and cringing as he shifted his weight onto an obviously injured limb. "We brought 'im with us…y-you…need to see this, sir."

Arthur didn't waste time trying to get more details and quickly jerked the reins of his horse, steering it in a quick gallop towards the back of the line. The thunderous sound of his horse's hooves striking the ground seemed to echo off every corner of the haze covered world, and Arthur could hear men and horses alike startling awake. He rode down the line of prisoners and some of the weary Germans managed to turn and watch him suspiciously making haste for the rear, only to be ordered '_eyes front'_ by another guard on heightened alert.

When the horse began to slow on instinct, both because of the low visibility and the sound of shouts echoing from out of the fog, Arthur narrowed his eyes and outlines began to appear. He could see two men with rifles aimed at the back of an unarmed individual standing still with his hands behind his head. Arthur gripped the reins tighter and halted his horse before the prisoner…and was thunderstruck.

His uniform and face were dust covered and travel-worn, and the entire left side of his body was covered in dried blood. His glasses were speckled with filth, but Arthur knew those sky-blue eyes anywhere. The prisoner was taller and far stronger than his guards, even unarmed yet still he remained grim and compliant. The golden blond head turned up and his gaze met the Brit's; and while both of them looked shocked for a time, it was only the man who smiled in relief while Arthur's anger could not be contained.

Alfred wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near here.

"Don't move and keep your hands up until you're told to drop them!"

Alfred turned his attention from Arthur to the soldier behind him and glared. "Knock it off; I said this man could vouch for me –"

"How dare you."

Alfred's brows went up and everyone froze. Arthur looked murderous before he suddenly dismounted his horse and unholstered his sidearm, pointing it directly at Alfred's head. The men around him quickly began backing away, while Alfred's eyes went wide and his jaw nearly came unhinged.

"Lieutenant!" Arthur shouted, his eyes never leaving Alfred as the mounted rider from the front of the line halted next to him. "Continue leading the unit forward and I will be along momentarily. This deserter is a matter I shall deal with personally."

Alfred balked and all the color seemed to drain from his face. The scouts covering him looked to one another as if their suspicions had been confirmed, and their wariness towards the self-proclaimed American quickly dissolved into pure loathing.

The lieutenant turned a disgusted look towards the supposed absconder as well, before addressing his superior. "Shall I leave some men to – "

"I said I would deal with this personally, what part of that was not clear?" Arthur snapped back, his hand tightening around the pistol.

No more questions were asked and the lieutenant ordered the guards around Alfred to fall back in with the convoy. The soldiers obeyed, but one of the scouts lingered hesitantly next to the enraged Englishman and spoken to him in a hushed tone. "We didn't find the escaped Jerry from before; you want Simmons and me to go back out hunting?"

"There will be no need for that," Arthur replied, his eyes narrowing even more on Alfred. "The unit is going to need all the help it can get now. Stay with it."

The man nodded and left to catch up with the line, leaving Alfred and Arthur alone. The two stared at one another in silence; Arthur's anger was almost palpable as Alfred's stomach only sank beneath the weight of his disbelief. Arthur still hadn't lowered the gun in the slightest.

When Alfred couldn't take it anymore he swallowed and broke the stalemate. "You wanna explain to me what's going on?"

"It's very simple," Arthur began, his tone still filled with venomous promise. "You gave me your word back in that village to see this assignment through to the end and instead abandoned it to undertake a task to alleviate your conscience. Therefore, you have deserted your mission and desertion during war-time is an automatic death sentence."

The declaration sent Alfred reeling; he looked as if he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. He stared at his counterpart incredulously before an impassioned fury overtook him. "I did the right thing, Arthur. I did the right thing by my brother and those men and I _fucking_ dare you to challenge me on that! Passchendaele is in Allied hands now –_your hands_– and you're going to tell me everything that happened to achieve that was worth nothing!" He screamed, not caring about the gun or the lack of change in Arthur's demeanor.

"Passchendaele wasn't in your orders, this was. You made a choice and in the real world the intentions behind choices mean nothing – only the results. Because of you these measures have been forced and now even more good men are going to die."

"I'm here to prevent that!" Alfred shouted, his color returning in full force and he made a sharp hand gesture towards the other. "Walker's the traitor, not me! He prevented me from finding you back in Passchendaele and had me nearly shipped off to Arras – "

"_Because I told him to, you dense bastard_!"

Arthur was the one screaming now. His face was flushed with anger and his finger on the trigger of the .38 tightened just enough to stress the firing pin. Alfred was stunned to silence and stared ahead incoherently.

"You're not fucking fit enough to carry this out. Besides being a complete and utter failure as an operative, your mind was nearly destroyed at Passchendaele and that's all the proof I need that you can't handle this. You're not ready for this and never were; so congratulations, you've done your one good deed and now can get the hell out of my war!"

Alfred never reacted. He only stared in speechless astonishment at Arthur, as he tried to grasp words his mind was trying so hard not to understand…and worst, accept. All of his previous fire was gone, and all at once he was left feeling empty and cold. Arthur watched pitilessly and suddenly pulled the trigger, firing a shot close to Alfred's head, but sparing him the bullet.

Alfred still hadn't reacted, and finally Arthur lowered and holstered the gun. "You're dead and now everyone knows it. Don't come back again."

He left him there, dead still and silent, as he began heading back for his horse. He no sooner took hold of the saddle than he was suddenly grabbed and thrown clear of the animal. The beast began to screech and rear, but as Arthur turned over onto his back he was far more concerned with the other beast coming at him.

He heard the impact of Alfred's fist against the side of his face before he felt the exploding pain. The subsequent blow to the other cheek snapped his neck back in the opposite direction, when suddenly he was jerked up by his collar and face-to-face with Alfred – who seemed to have found the will to kill another of his kind.

"You convoluted _son of a bitch_. You're going to stand there and accuse me of betraying you, when it's _you_ who betrayed _me_," he spat, now digging his knee into the base of Arthur's sternum, forcing the breath from the Englishman. "You're the same, every one of you: Haig, Pershing, Geoffery – you don't care about the allies you hurt or the lives you throw away, it's all about the _fucking_ mission and to hell with the humanity lost! You know what Pershing told me in that conference room before I gave in to this insanity? He said I should use you as an example – that I should take advantage of learning from you."

Arthur choked when Alfred pulled him closer, increasing the pressure on his chest as he reoriented himself enough to reach down and grab the knife off his belt.

"Congratulations, Arthur," Alfred growled, his eyes darkened to near obsidian. "You've taught me more about this world in six months than I've learned in the past two hundred years."

The blade was unsheathed and buried nearly to the hilt in Alfred's side before the American could speak another word. Arthur bucked and sent the other off balance, keeping his grip on the weapon's handle as he rolled Alfred over and grappled for position on top of him. Alfred was now the one left breathless, also clutching the knife while his other hand reached up and latched onto the Brit's throat. The move caused Arthur to shove the knife in the rest of the way, twisting it inside with a hard jerk and forcing Alfred to stop squeezing.

Arthur was breathing hard, leering down at Alfred and watching the surprise, pain and anger battle over his expression. Pain and anger seemed to tie when it was Arthur who leaned in and hissed back, "Yet you still haven't learned to keep your guard up. Now, you're dead again."

"So are you." _Click_.

The feeling of the muzzle of his own sidearm pressed to his chest stilled his hand. Alfred's respirations were labored and his body was shaking slightly, but his finger on the trigger was firm. Arthur only stared expressionlessly at the gun positioned over his heart, held by Alfred's blood-soaked hand that had once been fighting against the knife. If Alfred wanted to he could kill him, as Germany had killed him, before he could return the favor with the blade. Alfred was the one on his back, but he now had the advantage...

Slowly, Arthur released control of the knife and Alfred released his stranglehold on his throat, letting the Brit stand and back away. Alfred never dropped the gun, but it did waiver as he grasped the dagger in his side and stifled his sounds of pain when he pulled it out and threw it away. He was still breathing fast and blood was spilling from him at an accelerated rate, though it all seemed to blend in with the old blood staining his uniform. Arthur watched him for a moment but the American didn't seem to be making any effort to get up, or continue aggressions against him.

"I'm surprised you haven't pulled the trigger yet."

"Yeah…well you hadn't really been trying to kill me either," Alfred replied, still sounding angry but too hurt and worn-out to act on it. "We're both full of surprises, aren't we?"

Conscientious of his side, Alfred removed his hand trying to stifle the blood flow and pushed himself up. When he finally managed to get to his feet he swayed for a moment, but the weapon aimed at Arthur never fell. Green eyes watched him with calculation, trying to detect what the man might be thinking…but it was unexpectedly difficult.

Alfred was never hard to read; yet right now he was giving away nothing but his anger.

"Why'd you try to have me sent back to Arras?" It was a tone that echoed their first day together in Paris: demanding, scrutinizing and accusing.

"Because you can't handle – "

"Arthur now is _really_ not a good time to be lying to me."

Before Arthur could retort, the sound of a distant blast resounded through the fog. Both of them turned west and saw nothing in the impenetrable darkness, but Arthur's sudden change in demeanor did not escape Alfred's notice.

Arthur looked as close to startled as he'd been the entire encounter, and he suddenly broke into a dead sprint for the horse.

Alfred's side was in excruciating pain, but he could feel his body repairing the wound already; the stab had been far from a kill shot. He tore off after Arthur, making it to him just as the Englishman pulled himself into the saddle and began working on getting the horse under control. Alfred used the distraction to climb onto the horse's back behind Arthur, making both the Englishman and the horse balk.

"What the _bloody_ hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur demanded, still fighting with the horse.

"I'm not leaving you again, I don't trust you enough. Besides, your men killed my horse; why else do you think I beat the crap out of them?"

"I don't have _time_ for this!" Arthur snapped, finally forcing the animal to cooperate before spurring it to leap into motion.

The sudden movement caused Alfred to quickly grasp his former mentor around the waist, hard enough that it put pressure on Arthur's old wound and made him sharply inhale and grind his teeth. He tried to shake the other off, but keeping the horse racing towards the convoy was far more important. Unlike Alfred, he knew what was happening; he'd been expecting it for some time but he hadn't counted on Alfred being a factor in the equation…or that it sounded like the Germans were using explosives.

The belief had been that the Germans wouldn't try using anything that caused widespread damage with so many of their own people vulnerable, but it didn't sound like this was the case. The sounds of rifles being discharged reached him well before the screaming, and shouts in two languages were calling out in the darkness. Between the dense, fog-filled night and the cloying smokescreen obscuring what little that could have been made out, it was like running blind. The horse was not enjoying being unable to see or the strain of bearing two riders, but Arthur pushed it harder and faster as the sounds became louder.

All he felt behind him was Alfred tense before the American grabbed him and forced his head down. The bullets came flying overhead before suddenly coming up from the ground. Arthur couldn't see a thing other than the blazing discharge of rifles and burning embers catching on the air, heavy with debris. Arthur pulled the reins to stop the horse but the creature's leg broke through the thin remains of the hollowed out earth and screeched as it fell. Arthur felt the arms around him hold tighter before the sudden drop landed them on the frigid ground with a hurt and panicked horse nearly on top of him.

There was a sudden gust of air and Alfred was abruptly knocked off of him, kicked by the flailing legs of the horse Arthur had only managed to avoid from having been shielded by Alfred. The Brit quickly rolled away from the struggling animal, keeping low as he tried to reach out for the injured American – but was forced to retract his seeking hand when a bullet hit the dirt beside it.

There was a flurry of motion with men scrambling to get out of the hole while even more seemed to be filling it from the very walls. Bayonets flashed when the muzzle-fire of guns erupted and hot blood spilled down like rain. Chaos had no single tongue and the clash of furious German and frantic English was deafening. Arthur was trying to make sense of it but he couldn't tell anyone apart; it was just too dark to see.

Suddenly there was an ear-piercing whistle, forcing him to cover his ears and cringe, as the occupancy of the hole began to significantly lessen. There were still shots being fired, but the majority of them came from above down into the hole. Arthur had finally gotten to his knees after having been nearly been trampled multiple times, and backed himself up against the solid dirt barricade behind him to become less of a target for the shooters.

Some men were still trying to scale the walls around him, but the people who seemed to have been successful in making it to the top were quickly shot and knocked back down into the growing subterranean grave.

It was useless to fight back at this point; their adversaries had the advantage of the high ground and what had to be numbers as well. This realization seemed to be sweeping through the last of the survivors and everything began growing quiet. There was an acceptance of defeat, but a terrible fear about what that meant. There was still no way to see, but Arthur strained his ears listening to what sounds he could and hoping he would pinpoint Alfred's position.

Without warning, lights pierced the darkness from above. Trench lanterns set around the circumference of the pit only illuminated the world below enough to make out vague details of what had happened, and then lights began shining from two gapping mouths at either side of the crater leading into what had to be underground tunnels. It dawned on Arthur just how all of this had happened now…they had been attacked from below, and were now standing in what remained of one of the old tunnels running between France and Belgium. The Germans must have blown the widest section of the underpass beneath them just as they crossed over it. He looked around and didn't see more than a few German uniforms among the dead; they must have been very quick to see to the safety of as many imprisoned comrades as they could during the confusion…then laid waste to the rest. If Arthur has his guess, the prisoners had already been taken away from here through the remainder of the tunnels…

It's what he would have done.

A flash of gold caught on one of the beams sweeping the pit, drawing Arthur from his thoughts and quickly towards the mound of bodies to the right of him. His heart sank and he knew he'd found Alfred.

The survivors around him were quiet and looking warily at the Germans, most of whom were rapidly speaking to one another in their language and running lights over the carnage below. Arthur made sure to keep his movements slow as he crept along the wall towards the blond buried beneath a pile of bodies. He could see that Alfred was on his side with his back to him and that he wasn't moving. There was a lot more blood around him than could have possibly come from a single person, but Arthur still feared a good portion of it might be from the American. He kept eyeing the Germans before making it to the lad's location and knelt down to begin moving the corpses as carefully as he could. He was in a lot better shape than the last time he'd had to unbury Alfred from the train wreckage, but having to go so maddeningly slow was straining him to the point of exhaustion. If he went too quickly he'd be noticed for sure, so he had to keep his movements steady.

Eventually he could better see Alfred and grabbed him enough to pull him free the rest of the way. He pulled the American against his chest, keeping a tight hold on the back of his uniform and his belt, but tripped over the arm of one of the dead soldiers and suddenly fell back against the wall.

He flinched and screwed his eyes tightly shut when a searchlight's beam hit him directly in the face. He turned his head away and listened as someone began shouting in German, and suddenly two more lights on ground level were on him.

His stomach tightened and a sense of urgency swept through him.

Half of the German army was looking for Alfred and the point of this operation had been to use that to draw the German avatar out, or at least those who knew of his location. He had searched the grounds of Passchendaele high and low looking for the man, scouring German trenches and interrogating more than a fair share of enemy officers and grunts without results. The only information he could garner was that orders were circulating through the ranks to be on the look out for an American named Alfred F. Jones. His description had been given to several of the men he'd questioned, all of them repeating that the hunt for the American was a priority and many officers were asking for volunteers to form parties to look for him between battles. The importance of the search seemed to have increased when word got around that the American had been sighted in the Passchendaele area.

Alfred's involvement in the fighting had completely exposed him, and Arthur had seen that Germany was taking full advantage of trying to boost morale by making Alfred a kind of gilded trophy – a public goal among the ranks that if this man were found it would turn the tides of the war. Some soldiers thought Alfred might be some kind of spy with information or someone with enough clout that the Allies would negotiate for the release of; but whatever the case, the German's plan of a covert assassination of Alfred's life had become an overt operation, and now every soldier had become a hunter and assassin. The realization had burned him to the very core, and soon after learning from Walker just how vulnerable and unstable Alfred had become after the campaign…he knew the lad was doomed.

Using the same toxin that had been used on him in Arras, Arthur had sent Walker to carry out the decommissioning and silent extraction of Alfred from the battlefield and sent as far from any German pursuers as he could. Arthur then rounded up his prisoners, all of whom knew he had some kind of connection to the American they sought, and then began moving them in the opposite direction...

But not before letting one of them escape and return to their side to deliver the bait.

With the Germans, and hopefully Germany himself, focused on him he could complete the mission without risking Alfred's discovery. The danger was great in doing this alone, he knew…but jeopardizing Alfred and the American reinforcements had been an unacceptable option. Seeing Alfred again reminded him of everything at stake, of the sacrifices made and about to be made to keep him and the Allied chance safe…

Alfred had obliviously exposed himself yet again, right before the very people who were hunting him. Arthur had tried to remove him before he made things worse, by denouncing him as a nameless traitor before the group but Alfred had completely usurped those plans too. He had walked right into a trap set for the enemy and switched the bait from false to real. Arthur knew before leaving Passchendaele that many of his men would die out here, but the solace came in knowing they wouldn't be dying in vain – for the real target the Germans sought would be far beyond their reach.

Now Alfred was here, and the closest German would soon be an arm's length away.

Without wasting any more precious time, Arthur used Alfred's body obscuring him to reach up and rip off his own dog tags. The bloodied cord came loose from his neck and he hastily stuffed it down Alfred's shirt, just as his other hand reached into his own pocket and withdrew the silver tags he'd been carrying since Germany returned them to him during their last encounter.

He gave Alfred one last look before slipping the chain around his own neck, just before a German soldier reached down and grabbed Alfred from him.

"_Identifizieren Sie sich_!" The soldier demanded, tossing Alfred to the side as though he were already dead, and brandishing his rifle at Arthur.

Arthur raised his hands, palms out. "_Mein Name ist Alfred Jones."_

The soldier stopped short, and Arthur used the moment to add, "_Amerikaner._"

It was too difficult to track every detail of the flurry that followed, but before long Germans flooded the pit, including a man Arthur immediately pegged as the one in charge. Ironically to his relief it was not Germany, but an older human who looked well seasoned and beheld Arthur with a concerning amount of skepticism. The two stared at one another, the Brit still on the ground with his arms up in surrender as the group around the officer kept weapons drawn on him.

"You're the American?" the officer asked, surprising Arthur with his familiar use of English.

As chances were the man had been educated in the language by native speakers, Arthur swallowed the foul taste in his mouth and replied in Alfred's American accent, "Was my German too difficult to understand?"

The German officer didn't respond, favoring to size the other up with intense scrutiny. "If you really are him, I have a hard time believing you would just out yourself like this."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "You'd find out sooner or later, so what does it matter? I know you're looking for me, so I'll save you the trouble of defiling the dead in your search."

The man didn't seem very impressed with Arthur's mix of attitude and chivalry, and issued an order in German that sent two soldiers forward, one grabbing Arthur and hauling him up as the other searched him. Arthur remained compliant and let them remove his belt and weapons still on his person, before finally the soldier grabbed the tags around his neck and yanked them off. He examined them before tossing them to his commanding officer, who read them and began eyeing Arthur again.

The Brit remained very still and tried not to show just how anxious he was.

"It appears the name is right…but your description is off. You're supposed to be bigger," he commented.

"Sorry if that disappoints you."

"Hmm," the other replied in contemplation, and began rubbing the tags between his fingers. "I'm not so sure…I would have to have absolute belief that you were really the right man for my hopes to be raised," he continued, and turned a doubtful expression towards Arthur. "I am not fully convinced."

Arthur felt cornered. The German behind him was keeping a strong hand on his arm while the other held his secondary sidearm aimed at his head. As luck would have it, this man in charge was smart and wisely distrusted him. It was hard not to look down at Alfred, now obscured by the wall of Germans in front of him, but he maintained eye contact with the officer…for the sake of everything this had to work.

"Believe me or don't, I really don't give a damn – chances are I'm dead anyway," he began, letting a controlled hint of his anger show. "These guys were helping to conceal me and get me back to the rail-lines to move me away from the front; I owe it to 'em to at least attempt to repay them for trying to save my life. You can take me and I won't put up a fight, but leave the survivors unharmed. I'm what you're after, right? No one else should have to die here..."

It was a foolish plea, an idealistic plea…but something Alfred would say. The Germans had no reason to honor any demands from him, and while cooperation among prisoners was nice it wasn't necessary. They could just as easily force him along with them and kill everyone; after all, Arthur knew they'd been told Alfred could be brought in dead or alive. Germany just needed his body…if Alfred revived in custody, then it would only be all the more convenient.

The only real hope he had in this situation was to plead to this man's humanity (if he had any) to save the real Alfred and what was left of his men.

There was a tense moment of silence as the officer remained deep in thought. Without a word he slipped the American dog tags into his pocket and made a motion towards the men next to him. As the soldiers began to fan out and round up the survivors against a sidewall of the pit, Arthur felt his stomach tighten and fear for his men beginning to mount. He wanted so badly to spare them; he had lost enough people in this conflict and didn't want to lose any more. He had knowingly led these men into an ambush they hadn't been prepared for and would have to live with that the rest of his days…he had truly failed them all.

"I was on the original assignment that resulted in the retrieval of the last man after the life of my superior. A lot of people died in that encounter, but even more were lost after our target was already in custody. I do not know what that man was or what you are, but I know enough to realize that underestimation is a death sentence," the officer finally spoke, looking at Arthur with a severe degree of distaste and warning. "These men will live, but will not go free. They will come with us and should there be even a suspicion of resistance, both you and they will be shot. As you have seen my men have excellent discipline and aim…so you will trust that they will follow orders and not miss, and I will trust that you really do care about the lives of these men and will cooperate. Are we in agreement?"

Arthur wasn't happy with the ultimatum…but eventually nodded in understanding and suppressed his urge to resist when the soldier beside him moved his arms behind his back and locked manacles around his wrists. He bristled at the feel, he absolutely hated being bound, but he remained as relaxed as he could so his tension wouldn't be taken as a sign of resistance.

"_Captain, dieser ist noch lebendig_."

A soldier beside Alfred had his fingers against the side of the man's neck, as Arthur stared and felt relief and panic wash over him. He hadn't been able to check Alfred for vital signs before he'd been forced to make the switch in their identities, but alive or dead he couldn't allow the Germans to have him. Right now he really needed the American to remain oblivious to what was happening…if he woke up now he'd ruin any chance Arthur had to save him and his men.

The officer and soldier began conversing in German, and Arthur watched in horror when the man over Alfred pulled a pistol and aimed it at the American's head.

"_STOP_!"

Arthur hadn't been able to stifle the outburst, and was forced to remember himself when the man behind him suddenly wrapped an arm around his neck and kicked out one of his knees. The sudden disabling tactic hurt, but Arthur still had it in him to glare up at the commander from his kneeling position.

It worried him just how curiously the officer was looking at him, as he raised a hand to stay the man about to perform a mercy killing on Alfred.

"This man has a head injury and multiple gunshot wounds. Judging by his appearance he has lost a significant amount of blood and will die anyway," the German stated in a very straightforward manner. "The journey will likely kill him slower than a bullet here, so why make him suffer?"

Arthur swallowed and felt himself begin to sweat. The arm around his neck was tight, but loose enough for him to respond to the waiting officer.

It would be better for Alfred to just die here and be left behind. As horrible as it sounded he would be far safer that way, though to his people…it'd be impossible to calculate the probable damage. Arthur was already putting his own people at risk to keep his allies safe, as it would be unfathomable if both of them were to die…It was a no-win situation, but for preventing Alfred from being discovered and taken. With so much at stake and him taking such a huge gamble already, he really couldn't afford to screw this up…

He still caved. Ultimately he knew he would, but it still hurt to admit. He couldn't let Alfred die, not when there was still some part of him that knew he had a chance. He had beaten the holy hell out of the insufferable American over the course of the three months he'd spent training him, and still the young man always managed to take it and come back twice as determined. Alfred accused him of having no care for humanity…but it was the humanity inside of him that couldn't let Alfred die now. His nation-side calculated the statistics, the risks and wanted him to keep his mouth shut and let the Germans end it – but his human-self won out yet again and forced him to speak.

"The deal was to spare all of the survivors. This man is still among the living and counts."

The look the officer returned to him made his heart drop, and he knew he'd tipped too much of his hand. The interest he was now taking in Alfred was incredibly alarming, and when he instructed his subordinate to look at Alfred's dog tags and uniform insignia he appeared only slightly disappointed with their Dominion nature…but no less curious.

Arthur, on the other hand, had stopped breathing.

More orders were issued in German, and it was only when the soldier holstered his sidearm and two more Germans approached and began unpacking a field triage kit that Arthur almost collapsed from relief.

"I am a man of my word, I hope you will not forget that," the officer said, before he shouted something else to his unit and they began searching the rest of the bodies for survivors and moving out.

The soldier behind Arthur finally released his neck and helped him stand, keeping a hold on his arm as he pushed him forward. As he walked, Arthur couldn't help himself from looking at the scores of dead around him…

He had failed these men, but they hadn't failed him. He and Alfred were still alive, and however much the thought churned his stomach…he thanked them. He had been given this one chance to finish this task because of them, and he had to.

The Germans were loading Alfred onto a litter and suddenly the tags around his neck felt even heavier. If he hadn't been on a time limit before, he was certainly on one now.

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

_Notes from the Author_:

I know it's been a while, but let me begin by thanking you all for your patience and sticking with me. I have received a number of kind well wishes and messages of encouragement from many of you since my last update on this story, and I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming kindness. I did hit a slump with this story back in July and had since been working on several short stories (the majority of which have already been posted here, on _Tumblr_ and on _deviantART_). ;w; I hope they were sufficient enough in waiting for this chapter, which I pray has been worth the wait. This story will soon be winding to a close, but I hope to keep the action and drama going into the final legs.

Before we get started on the notes, I really want to thank my forever wonderful and supportive Beta Editor, **Acqua_Toffana**. This story would never be possible without her unconquerable faith in me, and the gratitude I feel for her is immeasurable. Thank you, Cap'm! I also wish to thank **Fakeofhypocrisy**, for taking on the strenuous task of fine-tuning my horrendously rusty German. You are a saint, my dear! Last, but not least, I also want to thank **Zombie4Pie** for all of the inspiration she has given me and helping to motivate me out of my multiple slumps. Lovely, your presence has been the fuel to my creative fire! ;w;

Without further ado~

-Bullecourt is a place and conflict that will be further discussed in the next chapter, at which time this "first attempted" mission will also be laid out. There will be quite a few plot points to cover for next time, so I hope y'all stay tuned!

-Arthur update: YAY, ARTHUR IS BACK! Oh gosh, I missed him and, judging from all the comments I've received about when he'd be returning, XD I guess most of you did too. Arthur pretty much took the spotlight for this chapter, but while he was backstage he was dealing with quite a lot. Arthur was also participating in the fighting in Passchendaele, but rather than being part of a company like Alfred, Arthur was running his own details to capture and interrogate German soldiers for information on Germany's possible whereabouts. He suffered physically as a result (one doesn't just invade behind enemy lines without taking some serious lickings), so his body is back to about the same level it was before his collapse just before Arras and contributed a lot to why he's more defensive than offensive in this chapter. ;w; Regardless of how banged up he is, I'm really looking forward to him getting more page time~ XD Arthur is far from done in this story!

Hmm…not too many notes to be had, this chapter – sorry about that! The majority of this chapter was more story and less historically related, but you can be sure the next chapter will have more of those infamous non-fiction roots. ^_^ I still hope y'all enjoyed the chapter, regardless!

**Translations:**

**-**"_Identifizieren Sie sich_!" **:** "Identify yourself!"

**-**"_Mein Name ist Alfred Jones_." **:** "My name is Alfred Jones."

**-**"_Amerikaner_." **:** "American."

**-**"_Captain, dieser ist noch lebendig_." **: **"Captain, this one is still alive."

Ladies and gentleman, I wish to thank you all again for reading my works and leaving your feedback. It has been my pleasure and honor to see this story grow as it has and to see so many people enjoying it. All of my readers have been absolutely fantastic and I hope to continue writing stories that you all will love. I have completed all of my accepted requests and side projects to this point, so I can really get back to focusing on the final chapters of this story. As always, my inboxes here, on Tumblr and dA are always open and I thank everyone for their continued interest and support.

^_^ All of my love and best to all!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty-Four Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-Germany/ Ludwig Beilschmidt

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XXIV

"_We Damned Kings_"

The dark was an ageless and perfidious son of a bitch. Arthur had been consumed by its power countless times in his life; and regardless of whether the fickle bastard was on his side or not, he couldn't deny his fear of it. The darkness had led him into the German trap and followed him through the tunnels leading to the waiting convoy of trucks heading north. He had been forced to suppress the urge to fight throughout the ordeal; from the moment they had bound him until he'd been locked in this room.

His senses were greatly muffled by the canvas bag over his head, placed there shortly after his emergence from the underground. He felt as though he had been completely engulfed in nightfall, unable to see or make sense of anything, for days. There was little to hear inside of his canvas prison beyond the echoes of his breathing, but he could feel behind him the presence of the men who had brought him here. His wrists ached from the irons around them; keeping him bound to the chair he'd been positioned in shortly after being led in from somewhere above. It had been up there he had lost touch with being able to feel Alfred and his men. They had all been alive upon arrival, but Arthur had no more guarantee of their safety beyond what the German commander had promised him for continuing to behave.

When the door somewhere past the darkness finally opened, Arthur felt the sweeping presence of another of his own kind fill the room. His hands and stomach clenched, but he otherwise remained still as the bag was grabbed and yanked off of his head. The muted yellow light from above was painful to his eyes and he was forced to turn away; not that it mattered that he see the face above him anyhow, he knew who it was by presence alone.

"_Lasst uns allein_."

The order was not questioned and soon the two guards filed out of the room and shut the door behind them. Arthur felt the tension rise in the newfound silence, and after his eyes adjusted he turned back towards the looming figure above him and the two exchanged scrutinizing stares. Neither was happy to see the other, but the German looked far less impressed than his counterpart.

"Arthur."

"Ludwig."

The exchange did nothing to ease the atmosphere, and without taking his eyes from Arthur, Ludwig grabbed a chair from the corner of the small room and used it to take a seat before the Brit. The move made them level, but the lack of interest on the German's behalf to unchain his prisoner was a clear indication that they were nowhere near on equal terms.

"Your recklessness is beyond comprehension," Ludwig stated, crossing his arms and looking severely perturbed.

"What you see as reckless, I see as necessary," Arthur replied, keeping his tone relaxed despite his compromising situation.

"It was necessary to ignore our arrangement and drag this conflict out even longer?" the German snapped back, his resentment becoming more pronounced. "Do you still believe it was necessary to force my hand in wasting manpower hunting down your American ally? Tell me Arthur, has your preoccupation with keeping him hidden from me helped your people any in this war? Or are they still dying by the thousands while you're sparing the life of one?"

Arthur didn't respond, and this seemed to annoy the German further.

"We had a deal. I spared you and what was left of your allies in that village, and you were to send the American back across the Atlantic where he came from," Ludwig began, his narrowed eyes never leaving Arthur. "Goddamn it, we could have kept this conflict from getting any bigger. I was ready to throw away this ridiculous mission and let both of us get back to defending those we're meant to, but your selfishness has ruined that!"

Arthur still didn't respond, even to Ludwig's rare emotional outburst. When it became clear that Arthur would keep his silence, the German gave a disgusted, bitter smile and became silent too.

The moment gave Arthur a chance to better examine the man, who now had a far-off look on his face and seemed ready to fold in his chair. His disciplined militarism kept him straight-backed and ridged, but his energy had faded. It was hard to remember just how young the German was when he looked so much older than most of his peers. War aged everyone, even those of their kind; and given how often empires were engaged in conflict it was no surprise that youth never lasted.

The observation did nothing to endear the younger empire to him, but the commonality did bring Alfred to mind…and he was desperately trying not to think about it.

"The world had been waiting for this war, but I do not believe any of us anticipated the scale of it. Now, after so many years in it, I know none of us can last much longer," Ludwig finally spoke, sounding almost resigned with the admission. "I find the saddest part in knowing none of us would have stopped it even if we had known."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "What drew this conclusion?"

"I have learned that the price of becoming an empire is one's soul, and in exchange for what room we had for reason and peace, we became filled with paranoia, pride and an insatiable lust for power. We have risen above being just nations and in so doing we have gained an appetite for expansion and conflict," the German replied with only the slightest hint of mourning. "Empires have no room for humanity, so we purge it to become fractured shadows of Rome."

The declaration struck a nerve and Arthur was hard-pressed to stay his stronger words. His fists clenched and he hissed, "You know nothing of me or Rome."

Ludwig's eyes narrowed in turn and the head of the beast that inhabited all heirs to the worlds of old began to rise. "But don't I? Surely you of all people know whose ashes I was born of. Not since the days of my predecessor has a greater replica of Rome seen light on this earth, and to this day it remains the goal of all empires to become the next. Every nation in this conflict is a byproduct of trying to seize the unreachable dream of becoming the new Rome, because all of them have felt the power such a legacy promises," he stated, loathing filling his tone as he stared his elder down. "This new world of many empires is like a bunch of wretched children squabbling over the inheritance of a little-loved but much-admired father. Jealousy, obsession, destruction – for all of our trying to imitate Rome we have only achieved the worst of its qualities and have now brought about this ruin. In trying to conquer the world we have destroyed it."

"This coming from the man of the empire that cultured the spark of this war," Arthur venomously spat back.

"Refuted by the man of the empire that continues to fuel the flames!" Ludwig thundered, pushing himself out of his chair with such force that it sent the seat tumbling. "You not only involved every dominion under your empire, but America as well! You have turned this calamity into a true world war."

"I have no more control over America than any other nation on this bloody planet. The decision to join this conflict rested with the American congress and that has nothing to do with me – "

"The propaganda machine surrounding the _Lusitania_, the backpedaling your government has done to appease the west after the staunch anti-Irish campaigns; the half-hearted Grey Memorandum, the Zimmerman Telegram," Ludwig accusatorily cut in. "Tell me, British Empire, what exactly has your government done to _stop_ America from getting involved?"

"And what has your government done to end this war!" Arthur shouted, the color in his face rising as he matched Ludwig's outrage. "This disaster remains a stalemate and has for years. Other than learning how to flood the fields with poison gas, what efforts have you made to end this mindless slaughter?"

Ludwig's expression hardened. "I spared you and your ally to give you the chance to spare thousands more lives from this hell, then return to the battlefield for your men who cannot escape it," the German replied. "I now see that prolonging this misery for even the slimmest chance of victory means far more to you than life ever will."

Arthur felt angry words of protest freeze in his throat. He stared up at Ludwig unable to defend himself because part of him knew that he couldn't deny what the man had said. The part of him that was forever the British Empire: the cold, nationalistic, elitist part of him saw America as a strategic play rather than as one more human generation to destroy. All of his dominions and allies were weights with which to balance the scales of war before they were people, and that was just how it was…that's just how empires thought…

That's how empires were made.

"And finally your reticence is justified."

"_Shut up_."

Ludwig looked highly unimpressed with Arthur's command, but it didn't stop the Englishman from continuing. "You think you understand what it means to be an empire because you've scratched the surface of its darker side. Allow me to educate you on the parts you're still too young to understand.

"Empires are self-serving, highbrow narcissists who crave the ideal of greatness because remaking the world in their image turns allies into subservient reflections and enemies into forgotten pages of history. Empires are made with great sacrifices of life, but to assume those sacrifices mean nothing is the worst kind of blasphemy. We were born the embodiments of our people; we are the living vessels that house the collective heartbeats at the center of our nation's being, and becoming empires doesn't change that. We fight, we calculate and we are party to plans that involve great losses of life; but _we_ still feel pain every time there is death, sickness and disaster. _We_ still suffer the maladies of humanity in every war, just as our soldiers do. _We_ are still expected to play the roles of humans, to march across every field and hunker down in the filth of every trench. Our imperfect governments have and will always be lead by imperfect humans, but we are more our people than our leaders. We wear uniforms and dirt, not the crowns of kings."

The German hadn't even attempted to interrupt and Arthur could barely contain the intense emotion mounting inside of him.

There had once been a time in his youth when his arrogance had gotten the best of him, when he had sought to take the crowns of his unworthy kings and rule as no mortal could. He had dipped so dangerously close to the darkest of temptations for his kind and it was only the fear…the terrible fear of what he would become that held him back.

In all his years of life, through all of the ages of bloodshed and betrayal, and even the eras of growth and prosperity, he had never forgotten the truth of where he came from and what he had almost become. The day he became the man and men he hated most, the day his world became a resurrection of the horrid empire that birthed the poisonous ambition within him…the day he became the model used to define ideal greatness in this world…

"Dominion, nation, empire – the moment we cease being able to feel the humanity at the cores of our beings and assume the roles of kings, will be the day we cease to be what we are and become gods destined to fall," he finally said at length. "Time is the natural reaper of our kind, but our only enemies are the darkest ambitions we hold inside. You'll know when it takes you when you find yourself standing atop a lifeless world and proclaim yourself Caesar."

Ludwig looked down at his elder in silence, keeping his thoughts concealed behind his enigmatic eyes as Arthur's breathing slowly began to calm. The Englishman's outburst had startled even himself, as things he hadn't thought of in a very, very long time came to the surface and found passionate voice within him. So many memories returned, and worst of all were the ones where he saw the image of himself so obscured by the shadows he was nearly indistinguishable from them. A monster; there was no other way to describe himself when the ambitions took over and he truly became the manifestation of an empire. It had taken staring down into the abyss to force him to let go of the addictive power and remember that the heart beating in his chest was more than just his own.

He honestly didn't know if their kind had souls or not, but if they did then it was only due to the grace and wickedness of humanity. Humanity gave their kind consciences and made them feel; it forced them to recognize right and wrong and suffer the guilt of each consequence. To be an empire was the closest their kind could come to that horrible place so close to the edge of darkness and absolutism, and all that kept them from falling in was that spark humanity had planted within them. God, it hurt so terribly to harbor the conflict between nation and humanity inside one's very being, but it was better than the terror of that horrible free fall into the endless dark.

To think he had almost forgotten that…and then berated Alfred for how human he allowed himself to be.

"Perhaps, then, there is hope for me yet," Ludwig began, breaking the silence. "I had feared that the time of my morality was short, and I had sought to preserve as much of it as I could the last time we met. Neither of us is free from our lust for victory and greatness…but I suppose there can still be something of good men left within us."

Arthur had quieted again and remained lost in his thoughts. It was only when Ludwig took a knee before him and their eyes met that he returned to the moment and found himself afraid to even dare acknowledge Ludwig's words.

"But the fact remains that we are still at war, and even good men do horrible things in the name of survival. Your empire rejected the closest thing to a truce I could offer, and now it will be your ally who will pay for it before your men do when their reinforcements don't come."

Ice began pooling in the pit of Arthur's stomach and he felt his heart seize. "What?"

"Talk of idealism and philosophy aside, in not returning your American to Paris you have left me no choice but to follow my original orders. I cannot delay this any longer, especially when another wave of American soldiers has come into France and begun training," Ludwig replied, his tone returning to the same businesslike one he usually had. "My brother has returned from the eastern front with the reinforcements needed for the assault in the coming months, and will be arriving tonight. At which point I intend to turn you over to him and likely not have to see you again until this is over."

Arthur felt the wash of cold beginning to spread through his veins and suddenly the weight of the bonds and the urgency to be free of them came rushing back. "And what will you be doing until then?"

"You have been protecting the American since he arrived, but I received the reports from Arras and know that he protects you too. I have every confidence that he knows you're here and will be coming after you," the German explained, rising to his feet again, but not before removing a glass syringe from his pocket. Arthur's eyes locked onto it and the semi-clear fluid inside, as Ludwig moved to stand behind him. "I am also confident that your self-restraint will be at an end the moment I leave this room, so in the interest of my men's safety I have to remove your ability to threaten them."

Without giving Arthur a chance to speak, Ludwig reached down and quickly put him in a chokehold, hyperextending the Brit's throat and forcing a gasp of pain from him. The sharp prick of the needle penetrating the side of his neck made every muscle in his body tense, and all he could do was close his eyes and fight to breathe as the familiar bite and subsequent numbing effect of the drug flooded through him. Panic was setting in, but before he could struggle in any way Ludwig increased the strength of his hold and tossed the empty syringe aside.

Arthur's vision began to swim and his thoughts became sluggish and muddled. Ludwig held him for several more seconds until he was sure the drug had had time enough to work, then turned his head towards Arthur and hissed in his ear.

"You and I are both damned, but I gave you the chance at redemption once and you failed. When Alfred Jones comes for you, and I know he will…you're going to have to suffer eternity knowing his first death was because of you."

Arthur was barely coherent enough to understand Ludwig's words and couldn't help slumping forward when the German released him. The Brit tried to keep his head up and his eyes open, but was losing the fight and felt the darkness overcoming him again. His breaths were so shallow and shuddered, his vocal cords paralyzed and the pressure on his wrists from the irons was the only feeling emanating through the fog. He saw Ludwig's shadow retreating and the distant sound of a door slamming shut, but he couldn't focus long enough on anything happening around him.

Suddenly, he felt sharp pain at his side cut through the haze and felt warmth begin running down his skin. His body had stopped repairing itself and the gravest of his wounds was reopening…

He should have been panicking but everything seemed so far away now…His neck muscles finally gave out and his head fell…

Ludwig had made his body human, and the burdens of an empire were too much for this mortal form to carry. His consciousness fled him, leaving him unaware and bound to the world as his blood continued to pool on the floor beneath him.

* * *

The brick walls and concrete floor amplified the smallest sounds beyond the room, and the growing sea of blood seeping in from behind the door spoke volumes more of what was happening on the other side. The distinct sound of bodies falling preluded the clatter of keys against the iron lock, and slowly the heavy door began to open.

Cautious boot-steps came first and then the barrel of a rifle. It didn't take longer than for the green uniform to come into sight before his hand shot out and wrapped around the intruder's neck.

His movements were quick and efficient, anticipating the retaliatory jab of the rifle butt aimed at his center mass and knocking it away before slamming the flailing soldier against the wall. The man's body collided with the brick and his now unarmed hands sprung up to grapple with the vice around his throat. The soldier lashed out with a kick, but that too had been anticipated and was quickly shoved away, as the soldier was lifted even higher – cutting off his air completely.

The man's complexion had begun turning purple when the hand around his throat released and the soldier crumbled to the floor. The man was shaking and desperately gasping for air, trying to reorient himself as the shadow loomed over him again…this time with his own rifle pointed at his head.

"Nice to see you're finally out in the open, traitor," Alfred growled, keeping his finger on the trigger. "German green suits you, mate."

Walker's eyes narrowed to a frightening degree, as he pushed himself up only to be thrust back against the wall by Alfred. Pain from the blow radiated in his chest, and Walker slammed his fist into the brick behind him to cope and vent his frustration. "Jones, you don't understand a bloody thing! By God, if you don't finally open your fucking eyes, none of us are getting out of here!"

Without warning Alfred lunged forward, ramming the butt of the rifle into the Australian's solar plexus before driving the forestock of the weapon beneath the man's chin, pinning him. Alfred's eyes were cold with fury and his knuckles were white as he gripped the gun. "You poisoned me, tried to send me away from my mission, and now show up here dressed as one of the enemy. I'm done with the cryptic bullshit and the secrets. You have one minute to spill everything or you're going to look like the men you left on the other side of that door."

Walker had barely gotten his breath back and was using the rest of his strength to keep the rifle from breaking his neck, but he still managed a furious tone. "We don't have a minute before someone realizes what's happened!"

"Then I suggest you talk fast," was Alfred's one and only response.

Walker's expression hardened in the silence, but it was clear what thoughts were racing through his mind. Alfred didn't prompt him to hurry up and remained steadfast in his position. Time was running out, and finally the barriers protecting the truth were cast aside.

"A year ago, I was sent here to join a specialized team assembled to undertake a mission to assassinate the avatar of Germany. We failed, so they sent you."

There was a jolt in Alfred's muscles before he froze again, but Walker didn't wait for a response before continuing.

"We were made up of British, Canadian, ANZAC, Indian – you name it. They trained us how to blend in, how to fight like Germans, look like 'em, and talk like 'em. My specialty back home was in teaching languages, and that's why they chose me to join the team; to teach the others my skills and extract information from the enemy." It was clear that having kept silent about this for so long made talking about it difficult, but the man pushed on. "Then we found out about the German's special ability and that there was no way we could take him out, even if we shot him in the heart or the head."

"What are you talking about, what special ability?" Alfred tersely interrupted.

"His regenerative capabilities," Walker crossly retorted. "Even by the standards of _your_ kind, they're off the charts. We saw him take a round right to the head and within less than a minute he was back to returning fire. We even tried blowing him to hell with artillery back in April and even full of shrapnel he still managed to get back up. If his body even has a breath of life left in it, it keeps on repairing at incredible speeds. It's why they gave us the serum the British government produced and put another of your kind in charge of the team."

Alfred was struggling to fit the pieces together, but the puzzle still made no sense even when he was finally getting some honest answers. Another of his kind was sent to head up this hit team? Who? Why hadn't he and Arthur been told about this or Germany's regenerative capabilities? Better still, if there had been a way to fight it why hadn't he and Arthur been given it? It seemed more and more like he and Arthur had been set up for failure.

"Why weren't Arthur and I told all of this before leaving Paris?" Alfred demanded, and felt a chill race down his spine when Walker returned a bitter smirk.

"My guess: because the commanders would have to explain a missing unit and serum that don't officially exist, and the loss of Australia's avatar," he replied, and his hold on the rifle at his throat tightened. "What I told you on the way to Langemark about my unit having been attacked, that wasn't a lie. We were in an engagement at Bullecourt, much earlier than what happened at Menin, hunting for Germany…but were overpowered along with the rest of the ANZAC troops we blended in with. Everyone on my team who wasn't killed was sent to the Cambrai prison camp for interrogation and as an incentive for our commander's cooperation. I found out in Cambrai that he had been brought to a secure location in Belgium…I came here to get him back."

Now the pieces were making too horrible a picture for Alfred to accept, but the genuine emotions – things rarely betrayed on the Australian's face – were making it difficult to refute. He had wanted answers, but this hadn't been what he was expecting. According to Walker's timeline, Arthur had been killed in Somme just prior to the formation of this group sent after Germany…but even so, Arthur had been revived by then and it would have made more sense to send an empire after another, not a Dominion. Memories of Matthew after his encounter with Germany came to mind and his fists clenched on the rifle.

He didn't want to believe any of this, and so his mind jumped at the chance to catch the man who had betrayed him in a lie and damn all of his "truths". Walker was the ultimate survivalist; the American even considered him on par with Arthur in that respect. If Walker truly had had the opportunity to escape and live, then why go deeper into this hell instead of getting out? If what he said before about his life back home was true, then he had something worth going back to…

So why not?

"If you could escape a prison camp then you could have just as easily disappeared and escaped this war. Like you said, you were trained to be a ghost, so why the hell would you come back?"

Their eyes never left each other's; Alfred was searching for the slightest glimmer of falsehood and Walker seemed to have stopped trying to hide behind his masks. Looking at the human now, he just looked tired. He looked like a man whose memories had finally caught up and aged him. It was hard to see someone so strong having been beaten so closely to breaking, yet refusing to yield. It was clear Walker had made his deals with the devil to survive…but what were his reasons? Why all of this suffering when he could have just taken his life and gone?

It was then, without a word from the Australian, that Alfred finally understood.

"They're pinning this on you, aren't they?"

Walker didn't respond at first, and when he finally did the raw hate and anguish on his face cut deep into the American.

"I used the tunnels to escape to Arras. I tried laying everything out for the fool in charge there, but the prejudiced son of a bitch wouldn't believe me because no one else could corroborate my story. He thought I was a deserter and sent word back to Paris, and they replied to have me arrested. Only the British commanders in charge of putting the operation together knew about what had happened…the use of Australia's avatar, me and the other soldiers on the detail hadn't been authorized by our governments, so having a person left to talk wasn't in the best interests of the cover-up. Until they could fabricate a story that would explain all of the losses without them taking the blame, I was a liability. I ended up escaping Arras by pretending to be an ambulance driver. I had been intending to head for the nearest front and slip into a unit heading for Belgium, but then I found you two. I had to find my commander, finish what I started and clear my name, and figured you and Kirkland might be my chance. I had a feeling about who you were, but I couldn't confirm it until I overheard you talking to your brother the night before you left the city."

Walker paused for only a moment, seeming to have calmed down a bit when Alfred's hold on the rifle began to waver, allowing him to breathe easier.

"I hadn't been the only one listening to you that night. The nurse who'd been doting over you was a German spy and had sent a communication to her handlers; she had also been slipping Kirkland low doses of the serum the Germans took from my team at Bullecourt. I thought all of the vials had been destroyed, but it seemed they had gotten a hold of one and I had to know if they were reproducing it. I pretended to be another agent, got her to talk to me and she confirmed what I had suspected – the Germans have made more of the formula and she and others stationed throughout hospitals under Allied control had received some along with instructions to be on the lookout for you and Kirkland. They've been gunning for you since you first arrived in France, and they were going to use the same weapon to assassinate you that we had used trying to kill Germany. She said that what she'd been giving Kirkland had to be done to keep him under until someone arrived to take him to Cambrai, so I switched her vial with a useless human sedative and went off to find you. I needed help getting to Belgium and I couldn't wait for your friend to wake up. As irony would have it, I had been in the process of saddling a horse when he did and sent the whole city into a panic. I got out in the chaos, tracked Kirkland down and had to tell him everything to get him to trust me…"

The final omission forced Alfred to betray just how deeply the truth had wounded him. Looking at the American's face, it was clear that Arthur's silence had cut into him far deeper than Walker's or the commanders' conspiracies ever could. Alfred had finally begun trusting his old mentor again, as he hadn't since the days of his Revolution. Given all they had gone through together in this conflict, Alfred felt he had come to better understand the old empire and honestly had begun seeing himself as the equal he had always hoped to become. Now, he saw the evidence that Arthur had truly never seen him in that way…he hadn't trusted him worth a damn with the truth, and rather than telling him and working together on finishing what they had started…

"Arthur knew…and that's why you both tried to send me away…" There wasn't a question in him any longer, and he finally let the rifle ease away.

Walker's hands fell to his sides and a rare look of sympathy crossed his features. He hadn't wanted Alfred to find out this way…honestly, he hadn't wanted him to find out at all, but the choice hadn't been his any longer. Now, he had to salvage what he could of the other and get moving before the Germans arrived. "As much as I hate to do the bastard credit, Kirkland had thought to give you the chance you asked for back at that village. It wasn't until we got to Flanders that things changed, but you have to understand that what happened between you and me wasn't put into action until after we were absolutely sure that the Germans had found you among the regiments at Passchendaele. If we hadn't acted, then rest assured that you'd be dead right now."

A sharp and sudden bang from outside silenced them both, and all eyes were now on the door. Hurried footsteps – lots of them – were fast approaching and both of them quickly looked back at each other.

"Time's up."

"What do we do?" Alfred asked, pushing back the emotions warring within him and rearing readiness for the moment.

"They still don't know who you are and have been holding you separate from the others because the leader of the team who brought you in suspects something, and that's going to be confirmed now that the German avatar arrived less than an hour ago. That's why I chose to act now in getting us all out of here, but we have to be careful in how we go about this. I've searched this place top to bottom over the past four days I've been here, and I've only been able to find where you and my commander are being held. You're going to have to trust me and help me get him out so we can find Arthur. This place is located in an old Belgian shipping yard and I've got a boat prepared to get us out of here, but the route is only as good as our speed; we'll need the cover of night to escape."

It was obvious that in spite of everything Walker had just told him, Alfred still didn't trust the Australian. However, with the sudden exclamation from outside at what they both guessed was the discovery of the bodies, Alfred knew he didn't have much choice.

"What do you need me to do?"

At that, Walker just smirked. "What you Americans do best."

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

Lots of dialogue, lots of plot points covered and still quite a bit left to go. I thank you all for your patience with how long this has taken me to write, and I hope the chapter was well worth the wait. This is, as they say, the final countdown till the end. I don't anticipate this story going beyond another 2-3 chapters and my over all goal is to have this completed before its third year anniversary. ;w; Yep, this story marked its second anniversary on December 21st 2012, and I thank everyone who celebrated it with me! This story has been an incredible adventure and I've gotten to know so many wonderful people through it; the reception this story has gotten has made it one of the highlight experiences of my life. I love chatting with my readers, talking shop with other writers and I've loved getting to meet a few of you at conventions. :') All of you are such awesome people and it has been a pleasure getting to you! Also, if you haven't checked out all of the amazing fanworks listed on my profile page then please take a moment to do so. :') They have all been such motivators for me and I cannot express enough how honored I am to have received them!

Before we begin on the notes, I need to thank some key people who helped make this chapter possible. As always, my fandabulous beta editor **Acqua_Toffana**, who lets me pay her for her services in derptastic shenanigans and wine ( XD I love you, Captain). To my German Consultant, **MelodyofStarshine**, who was kind enough to make sure I didn't ruin her awesome native tongue in this story (I hope I've done ya proud, darlin'). I also wish to thank my darling **Zombie4Pie**, for her infallible encouragement and enthusiasm in motivating me to get this done ( :') you're the best cheerleader ever, love). Last but not least, I want to thank **Heroic_Plights** and **ProperBritishGent**, who have been nothing but absolutely brilliant and inspirational in their own works that have so inspired me. ;w; All of you are invaluable.

On to the notes! (Fair warning, they will be short, as there were very few if any historical diddlies in this chapter. My sincerest apologizes to my history-buff, note loving readers out there. ;~; )

-In the last chapter our heroes ( XD sorry, sorry…I've always wanted to say that) were captured during a pretty ingenious trap set for them by the Germans. I wanted to highlight that in neither chapter have I depicted any graphic scenes of torture or maltreatment by the Germans. If you look at the multitude of stories and historical notations from the time, you'll find instances of both sides taking prisoners and both sides having good and bad illustrations of prisoner treatment. Many would argue that treatment in German prison camps was far worse than in Allied camps, primarily due to the forced labor of prisoners to work on the trenches and tunnels used at the time. However, as there were also instances of this on the Allied side (and I REALLY hate doing torture scenes), I have opted not to vilify the Germans here. As you can see, the promise made by the German commander to ensure Alfred's safety (and, by assumption, the other prisoners taken last chapter) has been kept and Arthur has suffered no more maltreatment than restraint and isolation. :/ Trying to keep the worst of the cruel and unusual out of this, ladies and lads.

-Along the same vein, I do hope that I've accomplished sympathizing Ludwig with you all. Though many consider the German Empire to have been the greatest influencing factor in kicking off WWI, the soldiers fighting under its flags were still people. German soldiers suffered just as greatly as Allied soldiers (though I don't think anyone could say the Russians and their Eastern European nations didn't suffer the most; their casualty figures are astounding). History is indeed written by the victors, and sadly that leaves the many good and ordinary people on the other side in the dust. ):

-On another note about Ludwig...this is an element of a head-canon the inspiring **KitakLaw** and I shared together. In the canon-verse Alfred has this incredible inhuman strength, Matthew (for better or worse) has this ability to become near invisible to perception, Arthur and his siblings possess sixth senses/magic, ECT...Well, we had played with the idea of each nation (and not just a select few) having some kind of special gift, some attribute of theirs that was truly superhuman/supernatural and it played into their characters. In this case, Ludwig actually has a remarkable gift of healing, which was born from the admiration for how resilient and swift to recover the historical and current nation of Germany is. So long as there's a will, a breath left, Ludwig could take normally fatal wounds (even for one of his kind) and keep going. It takes a lot to take out someone like Ludwig, conventionally or otherwise, and I wanted to really bring that out here. Many ideas in this work were developed and shared between Kitak and I...so in her name I am including this one here.

-LOTS of philosophy in this chapter – gat zooks! I had hinted in earlier chapters and in other "NYH" related shorts about Arthur's aversion to being compared with Rome, because in my head-canon Arthur has a pretty dicey history with Rome. I do plan to write a larger story and multiple shorts detailing my head-canon for Arthur's past, so most of his history will be explained there rather than here. For now, I will leave it with what's up above and let you all draw your own conclusions. :) The British Empire is often compared with being a "resurrected Rome" (with America earning this title later) because of its size and the number of countries and cultures it touched, but this is a comparison Arthur personally detests…if anything, Arthur wants to redefine the Roman standard, not replicate it.

-YEAH, WALKER'S ROLE HERE IS FINALLY REVEALED! This "ghost unit" isn't based on any specific covert unit operating in WWI, but the knowledge of such units working missions behind enemy lines well known. We're going to hear more about this in the next chapter when we meet my head-canon for Australia ( :D YAY! I've been so excited about writing him for some time), and we're going to see more about the conspiracy and ultimate breakdown of what happened to them. On a more personal note: I've been really touched with the number of readers who have expressed positive feelings for my O.C. Walker, and I hope that the revelations in this chapter don't dampen the love for him. Walker is a pretty cool guy and I'm rather fond of him too, ;~;, so here's to hoping I didn't "kill" his character for anyone.

*German Translation:

-"_Lasst uns allein_." – German equivalent the command: "Leave us."

Well folks, that's it for now. As always with any questions, comments or concerns, please feel free to PM me here on or send me a message on Tumblr. :') I cannot thank my fantastic readers, subscribers and reviewers – your encouragement and feedback is so welcomed and appreciated. Until next time, here's wishing you all the best and an AWESOME new year!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore, Violence and Character Death

Chapter Twenty-Five Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-Germany/ Ludwig Beilschmidt

-Australia/ Gavin Scire (_Non-Canon name_)

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

**-Never Your Hero-**

Chapter XXV

_"Dulce et Decorum Est"_

Considering the infirmary cell he'd spent the past several days in, the desolate room shouldn't have felt so claustrophobic. He stood in the center of the large bunker straddling the waterway, meant for maintaining U-boats that sailed into the channel, and tried not to look up at the catwalk filling with armed German soldiers. It hadn't taken them long to find him, as he and Walker had anticipated, and now there was no going back on the plan.

The constant thundering of boot steps and men readying weapons at him made keeping his hands from going for the rifle on his shoulder or the pistol at his side a struggle, so he tried focusing on the cement floor beneath him and playing over again in his head what he needed to do. There hadn't been a detail he or Walker hadn't considered, but in his experiences life never seemed to like following a script. He clenched his jaw and fists in his effort to remain calm, and soon enough the noise began to settle.

The room, once cold and empty, was now far too hot and crowded. He was sweating and each drop that fell on his still tender wounds stung terribly. It occurred to him that using up so much energy threatening the hell out of Walker in his cell hadn't been the wisest idea, but at the same time it had gotten him the answers that had solidified his resolve to be here. While the Australians were searching for Arthur deeper inside the base, the bulk of the enemy was concentrated here on him.

This was how it had to be to finish this…and when it was over, he would owe Arthur nothing.

Like a parting of the Red Sea, the cluster of soldiers positioned on the ground level with him began making way for the largest presence in the room. The weight of him felt nearly identical to what he always remembered of being in the presence of the British Empire, but this manifestation was heavier with the cold burdens of industry and the kind of advancement that set him well above his elders. Alfred looked up at him now and felt the superiority of an empire pressing back against him, and immediately his old-seeded hatred for kings began to swell.

"You are an easy man to find, yet somehow an even easier one to lose," Ludwig stated, as he studied the American and made a flicking gesture with his hand. "Drop all of your weapons and kick them over to me."

"You shouldn't assume I'm here to negotiate," Alfred bit back, as he made no move to comply.

"Neither should you assume I am. Drop the weapons or I will take that as an indication that you want to be shot," Ludwig brusquely returned and reiterated his previous order. "There are no more chances, _America_."

After a tense moment of Alfred's continued defiance, the American finally let his rifle fall from his shoulder and pitched it at Ludwig's feet. His pistol soon followed, and then he grabbed the stick grenade at his belt and paused with it in his hand…

Ludwig's eyes locked onto it and every German around him tensed, especially when Alfred flipped it around in his hand to show that the safety cap keeping the delicate triggering mechanism protected was gone. "Should I throw this too?"

* * *

_Finally sparing a moment to wipe the blood off his face, Walker turned back to Alfred for one last affirmation. "You understand that I can't back you up this time? What happens now is completely dependent on you."_

_Alfred avoided looking up and checked the rounds in his newly acquired Luger before nodding. "Yeah. Just hold up your end and I'll hold up mine."_

_Walker stood silently beside him for a moment before withdrawing the trench knife along his thigh and handed it hilt first to the American. "Take it. The German has a lot of stamina and you'll run out of bullets before he runs out of steam."_

_Alfred's mouth formed a hard line, as he accepted the weapon and sheathed it discreetly behind his back, wincing slightly when the handle brushed against one of his still healing abrasions. "How long until you and your commander can get Arthur out?"_

"_Scire is one of his Dominions, so it shouldn't take long for us to find him. But I can't start looking for either of them until I see your signal and can blow those charges," the Australian replied, taking a second to check around the corner to make sure it was still clear before looking back. "You remember where not to be standing when that happens?"_

"_I said I got it," Alfred snapped back. He hadn't recovered from his foul mood after Walker liberated him from his cell and the pair silenced those raising the alarm. They doubted they had much time until someone else noticed and raised another._

_Regardless, Walker didn't have the patience for attitude. "Look, I don't know what kind of shape I'm going to find the pommy in, but if he's able enough to walk then I know getting him to cooperate is gonna be a lot easier if I know that you know what you're doing. You're not even close to being fully recovered yet and he's gonna know it, so don't fuck this up."_

_Alfred glared at him and seemed prepared to counter, but stopped short and just shouldered his filched rifle. Walker accepted it as Alfred's response and took a step to round the corner before Alfred's hand on his shoulder halted him. He looked back and saw Alfred staring hard at the ground, his jaw clenching, as the difficult words finally came._

"_I don't agree with how you went about it, you or Arthur…but thank you. You've done more than most humans would have for any of us."_

_Walker didn't return the gesture and his expression of purpose never changed. It wasn't that Alfred seemed like he had wanted an appreciative response either, so Walker never gave one. Instead, he pulled a German stick grenade from his pack and tossed it to the American, who caught it and finally looked back at him without resentment._

"_I'm not going to dignify my actions or be humanity's ambassador. If you want to thank me then do your job." Walker broke eye contact to look at the watch on his wrist, waited a few seconds and then looked back. "Go."_

* * *

Ludwig appeared much more frustrated than nervous, and glared at Alfred, frowning. "Even if I believed you would purposely kill yourself, the damage you could do with that would be minimal."

"Maybe," Alfred replied and flipped the grenade in his hand again, making several soldiers behind Ludwig jump. "But then again, the multitude of these things armed and attached to the support structures beneath this hangar could easily do a hell of a lot of damage."

Looking at the German now, the American couldn't help but enjoy the sudden guardedness of the empire's expression; especially when this time he flipped the grenade, he saw real apprehension in his face. "Since we're assuming a lot here…I'm assuming that even you can't breathe underwater."

The German now looked incensed. "You're bluffing."

"No, just taking one from your book," Alfred replied then caught the grenade again, this time keeping it held tightly in his fist. "You remember, right? The little French village where you made your deal with Arthur…same place you shot my brother and left him for dead?"

He saw it the moment Ludwig began replaying the memory in his mind. Alfred had imagined what had transpired countless times since leaving Matthew and his unit to move on here to Belgium. Ludwig had taken Walker's pistol and shot Matthew in the neck, never once looking back as he crawled out from beneath the ruins of the church and disappeared. It didn't matter to Alfred if Ludwig had mistaken the Canadian for him or even that it had been a situation of war; Matthew was his brother, his blood…and Ludwig had done something unforgivable to him.

Standing before Ludwig for the second time in his life, Alfred realized that he hadn't found his motivation for being able to kill another of his own kind during the horrors of Passchendaele, or even after realizing the Allied commanders had betrayed him. It wasn't in having seen Arthur broken and bloodied on a stretcher in Arras or even in having been imprisoned here. No…it was in having felt his brother's blood pouring out onto his hands and knowing that it had been his fault for having hesitated.

For his brother having given him this chance, he wouldn't hesitate again.

"So, do you intend to hold me and my men hostage until you and Kirkland are released?" Ludwig cut in, watching the American cautiously.

Alfred stared back at Ludwig and without warning he grabbed the cord at the end of the grenade and pulled. "I thought I made it clear I'm not here to negotiate."

Most of the soldiers began to run when Alfred launched the explosive at the ceiling, but a few pulled the triggers of their rifles and fired. The bomb erupted and the shockwaves sent several men flying off the upper catwalk. The roof, not designed for taking hits from the inside, was blasted apart where the device made impact, and large chunks of brick and mortar fell into the space below. Smoke from fires licking along the wooden supports and hanging ropes coupled with the dust clouds filling the air. The hangar became a haze of noise, fog and frantic soldiers racing to assess the destruction and casualties, but it soon became apparent that the damage had been largely contained.

Ludwig, who had been tackled and shielded by one of his own men, began issuing commands to take control of the situation. He quickly leapt to his feet and cut through the cluster around him, immediately making his way to where the American had last been standing.

Though surrounded by debris, Alfred's downed body remained largely untouched. Judging by the fresh blood saturating his uniform he had clearly been shot, and Ludwig wasted no time in drawing his own pistol, as he took a knee and hauled the American up by his collar.

With his Luger pressed against the side of Alfred's head, Ludwig could barely restrain himself from screaming. "You absolute _fool_! Look around you and tell me what your bravado has brought you; tell me what you have gained for a few more wasted lives!"

Though the new wounds in his chest and shoulder were painful and his body was only sluggishly continuing to heal, he managed to grit his teeth, grab the trench knife behind him and growl out, "Time."

When louder explosions wracked the world beneath them, Alfred unsheathed the knife and buried it in the side of Ludwig's chest. The quakes caused by the detonations around the support beams blew out the foundations keeping the hangar anchored over the canal, and immediately the room began to tilt. Men went from trying to put out fires and move wreckage to scrambling to find something to hold onto. The noise of their screams and the building scraping against the barriers lining the canal were deafening, but far worse was the crash of the far wall impacting with the water – now quickly flowing into the room through the shattered windows and damaged floor.

Ludwig quickly latched onto Alfred's hand on the knife penetrating his lung and fought for control of it. Alfred wasn't letting go despite the pressure of Ludwig's grip and continued holding fast onto the knife and the German's gun arm, as his blood began lubricating a slickened path downward into the growing flood. Alfred used the advantage of gravity to pitch them both over and pin Ludwig to the deck while they continued to slide. The German, however, managed to roll Alfred during the descent but the move escalated into a tumble and before long the pair crashed into the rising waters.

It was like hitting a wall of ice and the near-freezing temperatures of the canal sent both men into shock, forcing Alfred to let go of the knife and Ludwig to lose his gun. But the German recovered first and used the advantage to slam one of his boots into Alfred's chest, sending him colliding into a fallen section of what had once been the catwalk. Alfred hit hard and agony exploded in his back, sending shooting pains radiating from the impact area and disorienting him. Ludwig was on him again and Alfred took a violent punch to the gut before being grabbed by the collar and repeatedly slammed back against the beams – Alfred's glasses being knocked off and lost in the process. Ludwig didn't stop until the wood fractured and the room jerked again.

The suction caused by the building sinking grabbed and began sucking them both under. Ludwig disengaged from Alfred to battle the current and when Alfred's senses returned to him he quickly latched onto the first thing he could and pulled. He hadn't realized it had been Ludwig's leg until he was almost face to face with the German, and immediately he drew his right arm back and slammed his fist into Ludwig's face.

Finally free of his assailant and the water, Alfred used the moment's reprieve to readjust to seeing without his glasses, grab onto the catwalk he'd previously been bashed against and haul himself up using the railings. He needed to stay on dry ground for as long as possible to keep any kind of tactical advantage, and right now he needed all the advantage he could get.

The adrenaline was the only thing keeping him warm as his body continued to bleed from bullet wounds and now one hell of a laceration on the back of his head. His right arm wasn't maintaining its strength well, and trying to pull himself up with it was a near useless endeavor. He used the spokes of the balustrade like ladder steps and pushed himself as far from the water as possible; unfortunately, Ludwig had the same idea.

The German had resurfaced and began clamoring up the banister after him. Alfred immediately rolled over the rail, braced himself against the floor and slammed his feet into the base of the catwalk, forcing Ludwig to grab onto what he could to steady himself. Alfred gritted his teeth and kicked again with all his strength, and this time the wood splintered and the boards of the walkway began to fold. Ludwig was nearly completely jostled back into the water, the surface of which was now licking his boots, when someone began shooting and Alfred was forced to stop and protect himself.

A German soldier, still hanging onto one of the large chains used for hauling boats out of the pen, had his pistol aimed and was firing at Alfred. With no cover but for the catwalk, Alfred tried to make himself as small a target as possible while Ludwig resumed pulling himself along the rail. The German positioned himself just above where Alfred was crouched and smashed his fist through the weakened wood, grabbed the American's neck, and yanked him up through the floorboards.

The sharp points of the wood ripped through portions of Alfred's uniform and along his skin, but that was the least of his concerns when Ludwig's hands on his throat began to squeeze. It was only by the grace of God that the adjacent rail Ludwig had been using as a foothold buckled beneath their combined weight and the two plunged back into the water.

The icy chill wasn't as much of a surprise this time, and Alfred became the first to recover by thrusting his arms up between Ludwig's, breaking his hold. Making use of his sounder left side, Alfred delivered a left hook across the German's face and sent him coldcocked beneath the waterline.

Given his state and weaponless situation, Alfred was grateful beyond words for still retaining some semblance of his inhuman strength. However, he knew his gift would give out long before the German's healing abilities. Right now he had to get out of this building before it finished sinking and find a weapon.

He knew Ludwig wouldn't be done with him yet.

* * *

"_Dad!"_

_His hand had just touched the frigid door handle when the childish exclamation stopped him. He turned back and the sight of the small boy bounding down the hall made him smile. It was still a marvel how his dearest treasure…always seemed to be running after him and never away._

"_Dad," the child called again, slightly out of breath with his sky-blue eyes wide and frantic, as he looked back at him. "Dad, where are you going?"_

_Arthur sighed. Sometimes he thought Alfred had such a selective memory and only retained the things he wanted to hear. They had already talked about his inevitable departure before…it wasn't anything either of them could help._

"_Alfred, my lad, why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?" he replied, though his tone was softly chiding with the same undertone of sadness he felt inside._

_The boy looked as though he might cry and stood before his elder, nervously squeezing his tightly clenched hand against his chest and biting the inside of his cheek. He was trying so hard to keep that stiff upper lip his mentor always talked about and failing miserably, but Arthur held nothing but endearment for the effort._

"_C-can't I…go with you, dad?" he pleaded, his voice wavering._

_For the first time, Arthur felt his heart seize and he swallowed back the pain rising in his chest. He quietly shook his head and after a moment knelt before the child and kindly raised a hand to wipe a stray tear that fell down his boy's young face. "No, my lad…I'm sorry, but this is a place you're not ready for yet." _

_Silently, he prayed Alfred never would be…though knew how foolish a prayer it was._

_Alfred then seemed to give up his lost fight and let the tears fall freely, latching onto Arthur's hand placed against his cheek and sobbed. "Please, please dad, don't go," he pleaded with all his being, tightening his small hands around Arthur's. "I'll be alone again and I don't want to be."_

_Words had left him and truly none of all of the many languages he mastered had an apology deep enough and sincere enough to ease the broken heart before him. His tear-soaked hand slid behind Alfred's head, threading through his fine golden hair, and drew him close. Alfred immediately clung to him, as the man wrapped his other arm securely behind the boy, embracing him tightly, and rested his brow atop Alfred's head. The small body in his arms wracked with sobs and tears stained the front of his uniform, and all Arthur could do was quietly hold the child…and remind himself that this was the price he had paid…_

_He had to go…so Alfred wouldn't have to._

_Eventually, Alfred seemed to tire himself out and his sobs eased. He sniffled and kept his face nestled against his caretaker's chest before taking the calming breaths needed to speak again. "Is it…scary, where you're going?"_

_Arthur gently combed his hand through Alfred's hair, soothingly rubbing his back with the other. "It can be…but not to me. It's just someplace I have to go until its time for me to come home again."_

_Alfred snuffled and finally lifted his head to look up at Arthur above him. Large and shining sky-blue eyes met weary green, and slowly hope began to return. "Home here…or back to the place you come from?"_

_The Brit smiled and gave a soft chuckle, moving his hands to settle on the boy's shoulders, as he touched his forehead to the lad's. "Home is wherever you are, my dear boy," he said and gently cupped Alfred's face, drying the tear tracks with his thumbs. "You're the only proof of goodness in me and the only reason anyone would let me come back…"_

_Alfred's brows furrowed and he leaned into Arthur's touch as he tilted his head. "How long will you be gone? When will you come back?"_

_In all honesty…Arthur didn't know. He never knew. But looking into those sky-blue eyes he felt compelled to give him an answer, some kind of answer that a child would understand. He averted his gaze, as he continued stroking his face and lapsed into silence._

_Finally, Arthur looked back at the boy and stilled his hands. "Alfred…can you just trust that I will return? No matter what it takes or how long, I'll come back, just as I always have. You're a strong lad and more self-sufficient than you give yourself credit for," he said and gave his ward a reassuring smile. "Never doubt yourself and how strong you are. I'm so proud of you, my boy…if ever you need to believe in something then believe in that and my promise that I'll always come back for you."_

_Arthur finally managed to get that smile he so loved. He knew how much it meant to Alfred that he be proud of him, and that it was why he tried so hard in all he did. He could honestly say that Alfred had never failed once in his life because the boy never accepted the concept of failure, he just got back up again and tried harder._

_He hoped with all his being that he never lost that quality. Looking at that small face now and knowing that someday it wouldn't be so small…that the life his boy would live would be a long and hard one…he hoped time never stole Alfred's spirit. He hoped it wouldn't break this child as it had done to him so long ago._

_A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts and he watched as Alfred's expression suddenly fell. They both knew this was goodbye._

_Alfred swallowed hard and grasped his father's hands tighter; his breath hitching as he tried to speak. "You have to promise…swear it now that you're not going to die."_

_Arthur suddenly froze and couldn't tear his eyes from Alfred's. "What?"_

"_Promise me!" Alfred repeated with urgency, eyeing the door behind the Englishman when the knocks began to sound again. "You can't let me fail you, you have to live!"_

_Arthur was thunderstruck and couldn't believe what he was hearing, "Alfred, pray you lad, calm down, what has – "_

"_PROMISE ME!"_

Cool air rushed by his face as cautious hands brushed the side of his neck. The fingers against his skin were warm and it was hard not to fall into their touch.

_Alfred!_

A hand on his chest, too large to have been a child's, pressed against him and he felt the world beyond him moving. The most horrible sense of vertigo overcame him and gravity took hold. Someone carefully cradled his head but he couldn't see whom in the darkness. An odd thought that this state of inertia was protecting him took root…and he began falling away from feeling again…

_The knock at the door sounded even louder this time, but Alfred screamed and Arthur could focus on nothing else._

He came back to his body, as if he'd been jerked mid-free fall. Light, sound and smell bombarded him and immediately his body collapsed beneath the burdens of being alive. A man in front of him was trying to keep them both steady, but Arthur's sudden movement knocked him off balance and the two fell hard to the floor. Someone grabbed him from behind, still being unusually careful, and instinct took over where conscious action was failing. He began blindly reaching for his hip where he would have kept a sidearm, but someone grabbed his hand and immediately stayed it.

He felt the urge to struggle but was so tired and the veil over him seemed impossible to lift. His body throbbed with terrible pain, most of it radiating from his side, as he tried to resist the weightless, incorporeal temptation submitting to the darkness promised. He wanted so badly to be free from the pain, the weakness, and the disorientation…

His breaths became calmer…shallower…

_Promise me._

Alfred?

"Kirkland, I'm trying to help you so stop insulting me."

Opening his eyes had become the most difficult task of his life, and the more he fought to wake the more he began to dread the suffering of existence. He tried taking a deep breath but his lungs spasmed and blood spewed out of his mouth, spilling at an even faster rate as he was quickly rolled over.

"_Goddamn_ it!"

"Shit, how does he have anything left?"

"He didn't until you got here. Keep his head and body as elevated as you can, he needs to keep breathing if we wanna get him out of here."

Arthur couldn't make sense of anything except for the awful dizziness when he was lifted and leaned back against something warm and solid. There was more pressure at his side again, but now he was latching onto the pain for all he was worth. The more pain he felt the more awake he became, and soon he was able to open his eyes and found only blurred images and flickering lights.

Suddenly someone placed an arm around his head to shield him before shouting, "Heads down!"

The world shook violently and dirt showered them from crags in the ceiling. The debris particles caught in Arthur's mouth and throat, causing him to cough, and his body wracked with the effort. The arm protecting him moved behind his neck to steady his head and keep him from falling back.

"I thought you said there were only supposed to be five charges," the man holding him quipped.

"Those explosions weren't mine. Someone must have blown the door we blocked."

There was a tense silence and Arthur gave up on his sight to focus on trying to speak. He coughed and spat out more blood before clearing his throat. "What's happening?" he managed to rasp.

"We're gonna be getting you out of here, so stay with us since there's no use in going to all this trouble for a corpse," said the man in front of him, and Arthur felt that he should know this voice. "Kirkland, it's really important that you tell me if they injected you with anything. Can you remember?"

For a while he couldn't. He must have drifted out again before a slap to his face startled him back. It wasn't enough to overpower the hurt everywhere else in his body, but it was a shock that made him more alert.

"Kirkland!"

"Yes," he finally stated, as his last encounter with his German counterpart came to him. "Alfred…he knows – "

"Let's focus on getting you out of here first," the man interrupted, and the person behind him began to pull him up.

The move stretched Arthur's side to the point he felt he might rip in two, but someone quickly moved in to flank him for support. Arthur let his arm be pulled around his rescuer's neck and tried not to scream for all the pain he was in. He wasn't sure how, but he managed to keep his feet under him and barely maintain some of his own weight and dignity.

He could feel his body struggling to repair itself, but it was so slow…

Then he remembered: he was temporarily human now.

"Scire, stay with him and I'll take point. The boat isn't far once we're topside but I can't say how much resistance we'll have to put up with."

Scire…Gavin? The familiarity of the presence beside him now made sense and instantly he made the connection to the identity of the other man.

Walker.

"What about America?" Gavin – Australia – asked.

A surge of urgency hastened Arthur's memory recall and immediately he gripped the shirt of his Dominion tighter. "Where is he? Ludwig knows…he'll kill him."

For a moment he thought his voice might have failed him, but it soon became apparent that neither man was answering on purpose. The realization pooled like ice within him and he finally managed to lift his head and capture Walker in his hazy vision. The other didn't even have the decency to look at him. "You gave me your word. Where…is…he?"

"He'll meet us at the dock, and we need to concentrate on getting there before our window closes," Walker sharply replied before he was quickly out the door to clear the path up ahead.

Arthur clenched his fists and jaw, feeling fear for Alfred growing and beside himself with frustration because there was nothing he could do about it. What was happening to Alfred right now? Had Ludwig already found him – …was he even still alive?

"Hey, once you're secure in the boat, Walker and I intend to go back for America."

Arthur looked back up to the Dominion supporting him and realized just how long it had been since the last time he'd seen his former colony. Gavin was young and looked it, with wild brown hair and a sun-kissed dusk color to his skin. His eyes were the same pale meadowy green of the life-giving fields of his lands, which were so few in comparison to his vast deserts. The young man was usually energetic and fit, but after so many months in captivity he looked lusterless and thin.

A sense of guilt began to rise at that. As his Dominion, Gavin's wellbeing was his responsibility and he hadn't even known of his fate until Walker revealed to him what the commanders should have. It had been plaguing him since his escape from Arras and even now he could not deny that he had utterly failed Gavin, as he had Matthew...

If they couldn't save Alfred…he would have failed him too.

"I will properly thank you…when this is over," he replied at length.

His Australian ward scoffed, but still managed that arrogant grin that had so annoyed his sovereign in the past. "It's because I owe the guy, not because I like you; so hold it together and we can talk about _you_ owing _me_ later."

Gavin's grip on him tightened and he began pulling Arthur out the door. The Brit initially faltered when the awkwardness of walking overcame him, but the Australian managed to hold him upright and keep moving down the hall after Walker.

Arthur saw the bodies of the two soldiers, who must have been guarding his cell along the way and tried not to think of Alfred's situation at the moment. It was hard to bear the thought that he might have failed him.

* * *

Having finally reached one of the shipping chains dangling from what had once been the ceiling, Alfred managed to painstakingly climb up to one of the scaffolds still hanging from the support rivets. The bunker was more than half submerged now and had only temporarily stopped sinking, as one of the sides had caught on the foundational pillar of another bunker. He had to admit that he was partially grateful for that, as trying to get out of here with only one arm and no glasses was a slow process; but he really needed to speed this up somehow to make it back to the boat where Walker said they were supposed to meet – provided he got there in time.

Walker had made it clear that the boat wasn't going to wait for him. If he didn't make it before things got too heated, he'd have to find his own way back to friendlier shores.

His motivation in mind, Alfred took another deep breath and kept climbing – his goal being to reach the other end of the hangar and get back to the shipyard as quickly as possible. He was nearly to the next chain he needed to climb when a bullet struck the rung above his hand. He turned and saw the same soldier who'd been firing at him before still clinging to the chain now adjacent to him. The man had apparently reloaded and was determined to finish the job.

Alfred completely let go of the chain and dropped to the platform beneath him before the next shot went off. He took cover as he continued looking for something to defend himself with – a rifle, pistol, something!

What he got was a steel wrench tied with a safety cord to one of the scaffold railings, but it was better than nothing.

Still under fire, Alfred quickly untied the cord and tested the weight of the tool in his left hand. He was more accurate with his right, but he'd have to make do and pray he hit the right blur trying to kill him.

He waited until there was a break in fire before springing up to his knees, and with all the power he could muster, launched the wrench and heard the sickening crunch of bone before watching the soldier's body fall into the waters below. It didn't feel good to have had to kill him but Alfred tried not to think about it as he started ascending the chain again.

He only just managed to pull himself onto the last scaffold before the monstrous groan of the building's makeshift support gave way and suddenly began to tilt again – this time on its side. Alfred scrambled to brace himself as the bunker began rolling further into the canal and latched onto the handrails of the scaffold before he was nearly pitched over it. The wall across from him slammed into the water, which began its invasion almost immediately. The windows that hadn't already been broken shattered under the pressure and even more water began gushing in. The added weight to the building began dragging it under faster, and soon it was almost completely on its side with Alfred barely hanging on above the churning waters.

Panic welled inside of him as he looked between the horror below and back up to his only ticket out of here, which was now completely out of his reach. The platform had swung away from the wall and now left him dangling like a fish on a line above the sea. He quickly began looking for a new escape route when the chain beneath him jerked hard enough that he almost slid off the platform. He crawled to the edge and looked over to find someone scaling the chain below him.

He didn't need his glasses to know it was Germany, he could sense the furious empire even in this chaos.

With the waters rising quickly Alfred tried grabbing onto the chain again, but his strength really had left him as he had feared. He had started this insanity before he'd been fully recovered from what happened the night he was reunited with Arthur, and the new injuries he had gained since hadn't helped his cause. He could tell the German wasn't in the best condition either, but he was still healing at a much faster rate…

Alfred hadn't wanted to use the serum Walker had given him because it didn't seem fair. In spite of everything, he couldn't bring himself to cheat against the German with something as underhanded as poison, but trapped as he was now…fairness seemed the least of his concerns.

Alfred reached down to the pouch on his belt and unbuttoned the flap when Ludwig grabbed the first handrail and began hauling himself up. Alfred quickly went to grab the loaded syringe when a shard of glass stuck him. His heart stopped when he felt the broken applicator through the cloth and realized his last-ditch opportunity was gone.

The German was over and onto the platform before he looked back up, but the American had just enough sense to get to his feet before Ludwig lunged at him. Alfred saw a fist coming towards his face and quickly caught it with his left hand, but he never saw Ludwig's other aimed at his stomach.

The trench knife plunged into him without resistance and Alfred's eyes widened in shock.

Time seemed to slow and his mind narrowed only to the sensation of pain in his stomach and the empire standing before him. He took a shuddered breath before tensing when Ludwig angled the knife deep beneath his sternum as he stepped forward. The German wrest his hand from Alfred's weakened grasp and grabbed the American behind the head, taking hold of his hair, as he felt Alfred's legs begin to give out.

Alfred couldn't seem to breathe deeply enough anymore, as Ludwig leaned in and hissed in his ear, "This is what should have happened on the roof that day. So many lives could have been spared."

Alfred remembered…He remembered his stupidity in trying to spare any more of Matthew's unit by sending them away and leaving himself exposed. He remembered being pinned down in that house and Arthur, seemingly back from the dead, saved him. He remembered the tower and meeting his target for the first time – the man now killing him. He remembered having the man in his sights and couldn't pull the trigger because he didn't think he could live with killing so many through him.

It had nearly cost Arthur and Matthew their lives…he had completely failed them then…

He had completely failed them now.

The very notion of it was killing him faster than the knife in his gut. He blindly reached out and grabbed onto the German's uniform, but could do little more than use it to support himself. Ludwig let go of the knife handle and grabbed Alfred's hand on him, pulling it away as he let go of Alfred's head and stepped back in anticipation that he would fall.

But Alfred kept to his feet and with one last bit of strength and insanity, wrenched the knife out of his stomach, swung his arm back and brought the blade down through Ludwig's throat.

Blood exploded over his already red-stained skin, as he fell forward into Ludwig, who was struggling to dislodge Alfred and the knife. But Alfred wouldn't let go and felt strangely calm…He managed to wrap his other arm around the German and take hold of his shirt from behind. His body was beginning to feel lucid and he felt so far away from himself…

A strange thought occurred to him then and almost made him laugh.

"I've never…died before. But I remember thinking that if I did…I wanted to…be able to see the sky…" he breathed, his hand finally relinquishing the knife so his other arm could reach around Ludwig and hold him closer to his own dying body. "Only…one way to do that now."

With Ludwig's blood pouring over his face and neck, while his own saturated the German's middle, Alfred leaned back and let himself fall over the rail. He didn't remember hearing a single sound until they hit the water, but he did remember looking up and seeing the blurry sight of a window open to a view of the waning night. He kept his eyes on it until the bloody waters clouded his vision.

It was the last thing he remembered before the powerful current pulled him under…and then the world was mercifully gone.

* * *

_He opened his eyes again to the night sky and this time he could see it all: the stars, planets, even the moon full and bright above him. He was lying in lush green grass wearing a uniform that didn't burn his skin or weigh on his soul. He smiled and knew his colors were there on his sleeve without looking…it was the only natural burden of war he ever wanted to feel._

_He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, smelling all the wonderful scents of his land: wildflowers, elm, juniper, and mountain air. He could hear the soft breeze blow and feel it brush along his skin in a gentle welcome home._

_He was content…it was peaceful here._

"_This was always the best part about dying...for a little while, you get to go home."_

_Alfred wasn't startled by the voice of the man lying on the ground next to him, and turned his head to see Arthur dressed in his fatigues, also staring up at the sky._

"_Is this what you saw each time too?" _

_The Englishman closed his eyes and shook his head. "It_'_s different for all of us…for me, it has changed a lot over the centuries. Sometimes I'd wake up in the woods of my lands when they were still young, and others it would be beside the Thames in a time before London got its name…Not long ago I used to wake up in a modest home outside of Boston and there was always a little boy there happy to see me."He said with a smile and kept his eyes closed, as if holding onto the memory. "I still think that one is my favorite."_

_Alfred swallowed and thought he should be sad, but for some reason he couldn't register that emotion properly. He still felt calm and relaxed, and there was an added happiness in having Arthur here. Still…_

"_Is this real right now…? Are you really here with me?"_

_Arthur chuckled at that and finally reopened his eyes, as he turned his gaze on Alfred. "Reality is a little different for the dead. When we die, our spirits go back to where they were born so that our nation can make us whole again. What you see here is a reflection of what you consider home…it's where you'll stay until it_'_s time to go back."_

_Alfred thought about it and ultimately accepted this answer. He normally would have asked a million questions and likely have been more scared about the thought of being dead, but he couldn't seem to find it in him at the moment. He was just so glad it didn't hurt anymore and he wasn't alone. _

_With this thought in mind, he reached over and took Arthur's hand lying in the grass beside him. He squeezed it tight and smiled when the gesture was returned in kind. He was happy now, and let the words flow without all the pride and bitterness of life holding him back._

"_Then it makes sense that you're here…I'm glad to be home again."_

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_Notes from the Author:_

Hello again everyone and thank you for returning with me after 3 months of idleness. I want to first apologize for that before announcing that there's only one more chapter of this story to go before this story is complete. Though this chapter did a complete 180 from its original outline and surprised even me, I'm proud with the results and realize that to have done this any other way would not have done proper justice to the characters. I hope those who had been banking on Alfred walking away from this with his life will understand and forgive me for the heartbreak, as my own broke too while writing this. The lad has and always will be my love and joy in this fandom, and his relationship with Arthur on all levels is something I deeply cherish. I also ask that the Ludwig fans out there know that I did my upmost best to preserve his morality and dignity in this story, as I too am a great admirer of his incredibly complex person. To my Australia fans and readers, I know I only gave brief glimpses into my head-canon for the avatar of this really awesome country but hope they were satisfactory and ultimately worthy of what you would expect. To all the Walker fans…his story will be concluded in the next chapter, along with the end to this era in the "_NYH_ universe". :') I cannot thank you all enough for your patience and support while bringing this chapter together. It has been a long and arduous challenge, but in the end…I couldn't be happier with it.

I wish to extend a special thanks for my Beta, **the Cap'm**, for helping me to meet my deadline of June 12th, which would be my birthday. :') I'm sorry my reverse birthday present to you all had to be a boat load of feels aboard the ship of war, but hopefully you all won't resent me too much for that. I would also like to thank my darling and beloved **Pie**, who has been nothing but supportive and wonderful through my struggles with this chapter. Rest assured, many tears were shed in its creation.

On to the notes section, and I shall warn you ahead of time that they won't be too long.

**-**The port I so lovingly destroyed in this chapter is based off of the Port of Bruges-Zeebrugge off the coast of Belgium, which during WWI was occupied by the Germans and used primarily as a U-boat pen. In just under four months time from the events depicted here, the port that inspired my fictional one will be due for the infamous Raid of Zeebrugge, which was considered a major naval victory for the British and turning point for the Allies. It wasn't hard to find details of the battle that ultimately overturned control of the port, but holy crap was it difficult to find pictures and schematics of anything before it! The U-boat pens of WWI have long since been eradicated from Belgium, however this port still exists and remains fully functional to this day.

**-**The reason Ludwig and Gavin keep addressing Alfred as "America" instead of by his human name is because of my head-canon that addressing a nation by his or her human name is very intimate. Its also in my head-canon that most nations don't know each other's human names unless the nation in question tells them, then allows others to address him or her as such. Ludwig and Arthur are more familiar with each other and will call one another by their human names (their monarchies are historically and presently related by this time period - in fact, the reigning monarch of the British Empire in WWI was the Kaiser's cousin), and of course Arthur's Dominions have privy. But as America, and thus Alfred, is a very isolationist nation at this point in time, pretty much NO ONE in the international community knows his human name (aside from Arthur, Francis, Matthew and Antonio...the latter of which is actually a pretty funny story that I'll get into in a short at some point).

**-**The caption for the chapter here, "_Dulce et Decorum Est_", is actually from the poem of the same name, by Wilfred Owen. This poem was one I dissected in high school and again in college and will never forget. If you have not read this intense and very heart retching WWI era poem…then I highly recommend you seek it out. ): I will say now that if you have read it, you hopefully understand why I choose to reference it so. For a translation of the Latin verse: "_It is Sweet and Right_".

**-**This has been a very long and complex fic, and with this chapter there has been a lot of full-circling. So I will refer many elements seen here that I would normally explain in my notes to chapters and fics where I have already done so:

*U-boats:_ Chapter 2_

*Stick Grenades: Chapter 7

*Alfred and Ludwig's First Encounter: Chapters 16 – 17

*The House in Boston: See fic "_Home of My Smile_"

*The Symbiotic Relationship between Dominion and Empire: Chapter 18

*The Humanizing Serum: Chapter 24

*Alfred's Memory of His Last Life's Wish for the Sky: Chapter 19

*Parallels to Alfred's Elysium: Chapter 12 & Chapter 21

This, my friends, concludes this latest and second to last installment of this story. It has been almost 3 years since I first brought this epic into the world and it truly has become like my baby. This universe and all its complimentary stories mean so much to me and I have been very happy and blessed to be able to share them with all of you. Thank you all for the reviews, favorites, subscriptions; likes on Tumblr and fanart many of you have given me. :') This has been one hell of an experience and I wouldn't trade it for the world. To all of you, my fantastic readers, I wish you all the best and hope to bring you one last hurrah for "_NYH_" and many, many more stories to come.

Sincerely and with all my heart,

_General Kitty Girl / Kelbora_


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